God Bless America

Rating: 4.0

Here they go again,
The Yanks in their armoured parade
Chanting their ballads of joy
As they gallop across the big world
Praising America's God.

The gutters are clogged with the dead
The ones who couldn't join in
The others refusing to sing
The ones who are losing their voice
The ones who've forgotten the tune.

The riders have whips which cut.
Your head rolls onto the sand
Your head is a pool in the dirt
Your head is a stain in the dust
Your eyes have gone out and your nose
Sniffs only the pong of the dead
And all the dead air is alive
With the smell of America's God

POET'S NOTES ABOUT THE POEM
Harold Pinter January 2003
READ THIS POEM IN OTHER LANGUAGES
COMMENTS OF THE POEM
John Gilberts 22 May 2017

Such clarity from Pinter in this powerful poem on the American monster. Perhaps some will take it as seriously as it is obviously intended and take the appropriate remedial actions.

0 0 Reply