Our Land

The words that Trump should’ve recited the day before St. Patrick’s Day

O’er the land that blossoms the hilly scape of green like a lass with silken hair

that sways to the strings of those who are dressed like her with heads wrapped in cotton.

O, what a sight when the clouds beckon the shore as the boats at sea filter in with the authority of the grey that dips into the sand of arrival.

We open the caves of doubt with no roaring sound as the tide softly removes the stain from the ports of our discontent.

Oh land, Oh land, from whence the dreams infinitely light up the darkness that streams into the guided fellows that learn to teach the language we now sing with abandonment.

Celebrate me. America cries into the loving bosoms of those who lived to ensure that we die as one.

In this great land of red, white and blue, we plough for the soiled and the whitened, through the streams of steady waters that baptize the dirt away from the gales of evil.

Sweet land of the black, yellow, white and the mixing of beauty that clandestinely unite the sorrow of silent hearts.

America, the fair and complex will be greater in the morrow.

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