You put her to sleep, this America, a generation or more ago, you drugged her with the opiate of superificiality, soothed her with your words of tax cuts, stroked her forehead with the warm oils of selfishness and egoism, covered her with the blanket of false security. You hated her love of her children, the way she took the tiniest and dirtiest of them all to her breast, how she faced the world with the pride of righteousness and glared, the wind whipping her long hair behind her, into the face of evil and sent it slinking off.
You put her to sleep, and then you robbed her, you dirtied her, you raped her, and you laughed, and you preened, and you stood at her bedfeet in your adolescent pride of having deflowered this magnificent woman.
And her children began to cry.
And she heard her children cry.
And she heard her children cry.
And she heard her children cry.
And May God have mercy on your soul.
She will not...