Thunder.

There thunders the marching of war

the roar of the fighters shooting through the air.

The missiles of warships, with urgent resound

flying up through the blue only to whistle down—

our Commander in Chief has lost his damn mind

we’re once again fighting on the wrong side—

there’s no war to be won here, no victory had

our Commander in Chief has gone totally mad.

What government was there, no dissolves in farce,

the corruption as numerous as the heavenly stars,

but none will stand up, none will march on,

no one will stop the desert red dawn—

none here believe, and none here respect,

not one american bears an american aspect

of industry, enterprise, or hellbent determination

we’ve become a slothful and arrogant nation.

Listen on your iPhones, on your laptops and tablets,

the cacophony of wartime and the nervousness it sets—

the thundering of infantry, the roars in the sky,

the shouts of dead souls as they pass us by;—

these are the sounds of despair and regret,

but still, none speak up, none will stand up yet.

What are they waiting for? What keeps them down?

They’ve grown too comfortable, to soft, in the sound

of Media frenzy of things that don’t matter

of the lies of the President and their smooth pitter patter.

I look out at this ‘morns rising sun—

take aim with my heart, and raise up my gun,

and frown with a fierceness that would do the Devil proud,

as I hear the whistle of the rockets as they’re coming down.

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