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Bearded and furious, quoting some prophet
they rage in the streets of their failed nation-states
exporting dysfunction, subversion and violence
the hordes are empowered—they’re now at your gates.

They fume as they gesture, in ***** pajamas
and brood over battles from centuries past.
they **** for their Caliph in murderous dramas;
the next ****** tantrum will not be their last.

Republicrat/Democan?  Satan to them…
They care not an angel what party you vote.
Your well-meaning efforts are lost in translation—
they’ll just as soon slit your good liberal throat.

Scandinavia’s day-dream, once Nordic, once bright
is consumed in the chaos and vanished as smoke.
Santa Lucia receives violent darkness for light
as statistics play dead to her national joke.

The Ishmaelite deity (Arabic sin)
is a vicious excuse for extreme misbehavior;
a wind of aggression, demonic conception
enraging dead souls against Jesus, Our Savior

Let destruction descend upon Mecca/Medina.
The angels rejoice—may the righteous side win;
for the judgement of God on an evil religion
proclaims that earth’s joy is about to begin.

While the minarets topple, midst filth and manure
in a cleansing display of immaculate hope,
the muezzins are silenced, the pilgrims are stalled
and the muftis are starting to mope.

I sing of life at state expense
a state devoid of common sense
addicted to obesity
impolitic in body weight
yet headed for austerity
as other people’s money ends
plebeian class-revolt transcends
our bureaucratic history.

They stack the monthly welfare decks
complain the service second-rate
those sullen clients, thankless louts
pajama-clad with tattooed pouts
whose girlfriends swell while babies cry;
the fathers mumble, sagging high
and wait in lines. The women try
to fool the lunar period
conceptions waxing myriad
while teenage dads discover ***
and social workers cash the checks
the daily urban nightmare is
enough to scare a nation broke
in clouds of marijuana smoke:
the cashless global mystery.

The breeders born in tropic lands
are tempted till they take the bait
no baby-momma understands
what family means, what life demands
Your undertakers overstate
in order to remunerate
your Democratic history:
a bankrupt urban mystery
the not-so-Great Society.

The ghetto *****-donation ploy
makes babies but maintains the boy
to run around from mom to mom
slow-motion population bomb
as if to merely demonstrate
that social program funders wait
till number-crunchers aggravate
the urban teenage welfare state.

smudges on the glass  
were wiped away each night
by a mute custodian

who found a biography
in each set of prints he made disappear
with clean cloth and vinegar

he could tell which ones
were made by children, dragged there
with promise of ice cream, later

oh, the young lovers' prints  
were unmistakable--eager tracks being led to more
and more promising carats

and the thin marks left by the frail
made him wonder, if this would be their last
precious purchase: a reckoning; a remorse

the cases held diamonds, rubies,
by the score, but the silent sentinel  
saw only the surface

that was his world,
one of transparency, and fickle
reflections

he reluctantly erased these fingered tales
the marks life left anon and anon, for he knew
it was his duty to wipe the slate clean

to allow resurrection,
renewed vision of a bejeweled
world, just below his sight