Scammerland (for P.T. Barnum)

This call is a response
to our concern
over the expiring warranty
on your lifespan

The following is based
on falsified events,
only the names
and locations are factual

What we share is one big lie,
the revolution on Youtube,
in pixilated smoke,
mirrors of deceit

Such pretenses
are the leading export
of a continent fashioned
out of genocidal nothingness

The bigger the fiddle
the better the misanthrope,
the longer the street urchin
sleeps at the bus stop bench

With evidence in layers
of the disinformation kind,
let me tell you the tale
and let your snake unwind

A nation built on hypocrisy
willing to believe
the moon is just a bulb of hope
made permanent in parking lot light

Cynical leaders, confidence men,
apprentices out of the obscuring clouds,
pictures of food on grocery shelves,
churches bound in black books of delusion

Brown is the only color
white isn't white
and buckets of blood
water down our action words

Oh say can you see
the sedentary stacks
of trash, inanimate
and animate in gory glory

God is a fume of tricky red shifts
and blues, sung from the deep
a solar storm. a meteor hour,
inducing the sleep of Dorothies

History is bunk, sayeth Henry Ford,
and your automobile museum
attracts the burning deer
in your mud-covered headlights

Notoriety is the self-serving flame
on the conspicuous boulevard,
knees aching from fanciful dreams,
eyes blighted by car part stores

If you could lend P.T. Barnum's eyes
to the lion blinded by the optometrist,
the movie might be more realistic,
and each note, a saxophone solo shining

This call is a robot voice
reminder about the hoax
on your lapsed liberty
that is forever unreal