The Patriot –

Star spangled mess – ‘Say that again mother-fucker!’
Trans-Continental, lay on top of Chinese, Irish, and the rest, cutting down rocks, blowing up trees, throwing stones at Indians.
Drunken hieroglyphic language barriers, no one listened to other man talking, got there in the end, see what they mean, Plan A and B joined up with a golden spike.
No women swinging pick-axes then, except, prostitutes, known as ‘hookers’, ‘wallet thieves’, ‘muck-spreaders’, ‘honey’, ‘darling’ and ‘I do’.
Ours is, our own internal combustion technology, no more four-legs, Pony Express, we intended, we came, we moved, we joined-up, study our manifest magnificence.
Old Europe dug deep, carved, planted fence posts, drove them home, then, ships opened bow doors, released new Tinkers with muscle, willing, worn knees, hunger and freshly bought postcards; We all get along now, often share same cemeteries.
It finished on time, concentrate, enemies of this place, those ‘Beasts in Men’s Shape’, heard us speak, that day, tuned into Howard Stern, that day, thought we’d lost a Will, that day, awoke a Kraken, that day.
Abraham, JFK, Ronnie R, they knew all about football, baseball scores, all about healthy defence budget scores, so, big ships, missiles, lots, and many fast jets, just in case anyone thinks Ulysses S. Grant wasn’t a real man.
Defending Ma, Pa, the Grocery Store, hiding guns in purses, 25 hour-a-day TV, to hate and to love the state in States.
Shouting loud about all you are, all across a beautiful crazy place invented for dreams, for abstract love, where Jackson Pollock found out he was an ‘Artist’.
What else would you be without it.

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