harold pinter

God Bless America

Here they go again,The Yanks in their armoured paradeChanting their ballads of joyAs they gallop across the big worldPraising America’s God.

The gutters are clogged with the deadThe ones who couldn’t join inThe others refusing to singThe ones who are losing their voiceThe ones who’ve forgotten the tune.

The riders have whips which cut.Your head rolls onto the sandYour head is a pool in the dirtYour head is a stain in the dustYour eyes have gone out and your noseSniffs only the pong of the deadAnd all the dead air is aliveWith the smell of America’s God.

© Harold Pinter 2003/Guardian