This is not your father's poem
we must admit it's true...
this poem belches at the dinner table
picks its nose at the opera
and passes gas in church...PEW!
This poem is a nasty little bugger that will sneak a peek up your dress
or bite you on the rear if you don't stand clear.
This poem stepped on a crack and broke your mother's back.
This poem wants you to wear your stiletto heels and give its ass a whack.
This poem doesn't give a damn if you're black or if you're white.
This poem IS black...this poem IS white.
This poem don't care if you're gay or if you're straight.
This poem IS pretty gay...and this poem WILL set you straight.
This poem needs no critique,
nor will it ever appear in some anal-retentive academic journal.
This poem possesses no mystique,
but its heart is pure and its message eternal.
This poem don't care about what's "PC" or what isn't...
This poem is free to sing My Country 'Tis of Thee...or 'tisn't.
This poem makes no apology to any lace-panty wearing pantywaists
who may be offended by words--
who believe that speech should be free
only when they agree.
This poem don't cotton to no flag waving love-it-or-leave-it hypocrites
who tell us we should love the symbol more
than what the symbol stands for.
(Do you KNOW what it stands for?)
This poem believes that life, liberty, and the pursuit of "hap"
is being threatened by the whiners and all of their crap.
This poem knows that our minds have been brainwashed
by those whose misdeeds have been whitewashed
until everything we believe is hogwash.
This poem advises you to murder your television.
This poem has had a hell of a vision
that your television is out to murder you.
This poem wants us to get our heads together--
this poem wants us to get our shit together,
but this poem doubts whether SHITHEADS can ever get it together!
This poem is bi-coastal.
This poem went postal.
This poem is headed for a fall...
this poem banged its head against the wall
and passed out in the toilet stall.
This poem is a celebration of what America once thought she could be...
and a requiem for what she has become.
This poem is done.
