Land of gold and proud parades,
inside every broken house
dwells an agitated mouse;
—ammo waits in mountain caves.

Glitter shines on evening gowns,
while self-appointed agents go
after children in the snow;
—tax evaders polish crowns.

All of Caesar’s beds are warm,
as every discontented man,
now an avid partisan,
sells tickets for the firestorm.

Bodies lie along the wall,
and little birds with yellow legs
leave their nests of speckled eggs
—bitter rain begins to fall.

Outside every palace gate
songs of fealty are sung,
redwood trees are on the run
—ghosts of history awake.