A pot of pious prattle
simmers slowly on the stove,
and no one questions
where the hunger ends,

as the patriotic pillars
of a nation under God
concoct their latest
tax avoidance scheme.

Pugilistic packs of peers,
each louder than the next,
shake spears and rattle sabres
at those on the other shore;

for when tribalism rules,
the unity of man
is nothing but
anachronistic tripe.

Pontitectural pursuits?
A waste of precious time—
there's news to fake,
and rumours to deny.

Subversive sorts suggest to us
that bridges should be built,
when we all know that
they are made to burn.

Walls don't really fence us in
they keep the "others" out;
you've no place here
if you can't be like us.

Compromise, consensus?
These are Satan's tools—
I'll shout you down and
turn your name to mud.

If we can't learn to get along,
it matters not to me;
contented in the
knowledge that I'm right;

and when the skies begin to rain
Fire and Fury down,
I'll proudly shout "I've won!"
as I kiss my ass goodbye.