What becomes the American Dream
Silent night, Holy night.
What will become of that dream tonight?
Will it be like brave flowers; with little vain,
Or would it simply return to the beds of earth again?
Will it be as easy to suck upon a baby?
Like a thirsty Ol’Higue.
Rather, than a carnival of misery,
Molded from malevolence and spite.
A loup-garou (werewolf) that howls at the moon,
Calling it’s next prey.
Oh please the almighty;
Save me another day.
To look fresh and spruce,
As I pursue that dream.
A deferred dream!
That requires me,
To voice thy perfumed breath,
And accepts its death.
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