Drunk Chicken / America

America

America, I've given you all and now I'm nothing

America, two dollars and twenty-seven cents January 17, 1956

I can't stand my own mind

America, when will we end the human war

Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb

I don't feel good, don't bother me

I won't write my poem till I'm in my right mind

America, when will you be angelic

When will you take off your clothes

When will you look at yourself through the grave

When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites

America, why are your libraries full of tears

America, when will you send your eggs to India

I'm sick of your insane demands

When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks

America, after all, it is you and I who are perfect, not the next world

Your machinery is too much for me

You made me want to be a saint

There must be some other way to settle this argument

Burroughs is in Tangiers

I don't think he'll come back, it's sinister

Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical joke

I'm trying to come to the point

I refuse to give up my obsession

America, stop pushing, I know what I'm doing

America, the plum blossoms are falling

I haven't read the newspapers for months

Everyday somebody goes on trial for murder