Rural-WHITE-heaveN

  

you rapturers b'lieve your heaven's greater than this wasted world:

white clouds and angels glist'ning bright in the air

hypocrites not included  'cept as workers on minimum wage

no migrants of the darker fare for care

while tan lines wrapped 'round your anklets bare

preach your sad and piss-poor state of affair

the ugly eyes of your exclusions shine bright red in hollywood-hell

satanic and sour like the green grass of monetary gloss

with your unmanaged soil in the hands of your ex-lazy slaves

chained to their plot of salvation since before The Historic War

yours is the taste of putrid gods not dwelling there

and demons gone blind, smelling like bowel-flares

take your smelly crap and float on the smoke from its flame

for it will lay dead with your bodies petrified in the glaze

with your American-dream grown foul like a hypo-sloth

     having crawled where you believe white-nations would never rest