Romantic blood and majestic past;

Flatter the abused, give them scraps,

Or they’ll ask for respect.

Maintain a system

Of perception.

No, don’t call it oppression.


You are made of gold --


Let me apologize

For the pickaxe in my father’s hand.

I had nothing to do with that.

My rings are heirlooms.


Satisfy yourself with pictures

And statistics we’ve skewed

For your viewing pleasure. 

Don’t ask questions that go

Deeper than your feed --

We’ve provided all you need. 

This poem is about: 
My community
My country
Our world


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