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Drunk Chicken /
AmericaAmerica, I've given you all and now I'm nothingAmerica, two dollars and twenty-seven cents January 17, 1956I can't stand my own mindAmerica, when will we end the human warGo fuck yourself with your atom bombI don't feel good, don't bother meI won't write my poem till I'm in my right mindAmerica, when will you be angelicWhen will you take off your clothesWhen will you look at yourself through the graveWhen will you be worthy of your million TrotskyitesAmerica, why are your libraries full of tearsAmerica, when will you send your eggs to IndiaI'm sick of your insane demandsWhen can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looksAmerica, after all, it is you and I who are perfect, not the next worldYour machinery is too much for meYou made me want to be a saintThere must be some other way to settle this argumentBurroughs is in TangiersI don't think he'll come back, it's sinisterAre you being sinister or is this some form of practical jokeI'm trying to come to the pointI refuse to give up my obsessionAmerica, stop pushing, I know what I'm doingAmerica, the plum blossoms are fallingI haven't read the newspapers for monthsEveryday somebody goes on trial for murder
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