God Bless America 

Here they go again, 
The Yanks in their armoured parade 
Chanting their ballads of joy 
As they gallop across the big world 
Praising America's God. 

The gutters are clogged with the dead 
The ones who couldn't join in 
The others refusing to sing 
The ones who are losing their voice 
The ones who've forgotten the tune.

The riders have whips which cut. 
Your head rolls onto the sand 
Your head is a pool in the dirt 
Your head is a stain in the dust 
Your eyes have gone out and your nose 
Sniffs only the pong of the dead 
And all the dead air is alive 
With the smell of America's God. 

January 2003