Folk Song

This country is a cartoon of degrading violence
overrun by predators that own the border towns.
Traffic in betrayal crowd the freeway ramps
with cardboard signs sacred cows are left to rot.
Mindless speculation, investment double cross,
a naked French masseuse they keep to get them off.
Automatic pistols like leaves on trees,
a paradise of mobile phones in vigilante rationale.
No doubt you will discern
the cut in my tone...
and that lustrous glitter
which brought smallpox to the New World.
Down in the birthing wards another bleak rendition,
a suicidal ballad billions of todays.
CD drives make the stars of skin flicks up on liquid screens,
so, if you think you're gonna come perhaps it's time to quit.