The Drumming

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Afghanistan has worn my butt flat
riding on the forehead of this tank,
cannon between my legs like a flagpole,

we're crushing mud huts and clay pots and tied goats,
wanting to leave tomorrow, squinting
the rest of my life scarred with this country,
dreams bathed in blood and boasting, when
I really want to weep...

bell ringing in the distant mountains
high as the dull sky
for money and power gripping around the world

screaming people running in front of our steel treads,
rabbits in the dark spotlighted by our teeth,

I'm one of the devils
driving a tank from America,
doing our assigned jobs,

companies controlling our Congress,
President a talking piece,
our People long ago silenced
by a constant drum of Media.