[Newspoetry] I sing of my America

[DL Emerick]

Underneath all my whining
I love America, my country,
'tis of thee I'd sing songs,
and praise your nobleness,
not as it may happen to be,
but as I ever dream of it,
a land of opportunity,
a land of the free,
a land of peoples proud
to be an unselfish blessing,
in growing liberty for all.

Oh, there is my love for you,
and then there is you,
a harlot chasing after fame,
after power and ruling flame,
the whore who sells herself
to the merchants of power,
the ones who lick her, a lass,
and stick it up her ass,
and turn her prostitute.

Statue of Liberty thrills me,
when I see her in the harbor,
when I see her torch burning,
when she beckons to all people,
come to me, and be ye free,
not of taxes but of fear,
for taxes make you free,
when your life they aid,
and fear makes you a slave.

Be not afraid of the price,
the taxes of a free people,
to spread level playing fields,
where each and all may play,
where every person may walk,
may talk of ideas in wonder.

A philospher's paradise,
this noble idea of liberty,
that it exists to serve mind,
and spirit in varied quests,
ever seeking to raise all
ever higher in thinking,
a world of daydreaming,
no boring commercial tv.

It's hard to free souls,
to set their hearts afire,
into thinking of easy it is.
to live as a free person,
not wanting materiality,
for none of that matters,
not clothes, not looks,
not furnishings of home,
not fancy cars and houses.

We are poor in spirit, unfree,
when we seek such possessions,
when we have to yield to lust,
to having a slice of pie owned,
and claimed and possessed,
invested and saved and stored,
like Lenin's body in Rd Square,
a destiny certain and assured,
plastic arifice of the unreal.

Oh, my people, oh, pioneers,
you stretched a nation wide,
you left behind all commerce,
the kind that relies on buying,
and sold yourselves to a dream,
and sweat you gave, even blood,
to make this a land of the free,
a land where being counted more,
than all that man or woman owned.

But, your children live in luxury,
they have no sense of being free,
and sell themselves in stores,
on credit card debts piled high,
on mortgages of their lives,
not for necessity but for fun.

Oh, my people, oh, my America,
oh my dream child, my dream love,
I weep for you in your lost ways,
and hope to find you awakening,
from this nightmare of commerce,
where you live, nought and nothing.