St. Jude

23 11 2008

Seems like we’re miles from here

Alighting at some foreign station

With luggage in hand, leaning to the right

Our sight deceives us as we look for the lamp.

Oh, how they love us American boys

Smiling at our insignia

Nodding to faces that never ask for approval,

Nobody passes without taking a little piece

In exchange for their self-congratulations;

As if their gestures were consolation for Hell

And their smiles a balm upon dead flesh,

They tear off layers of insulation

With sinuous smiles

Exposing the mortified flesh beneath

So with a weakened complexion, they hurry on.

Clap your hands, children

Clap your hands tonight

For the boys are coming home

Everything’s gonna be all right.

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