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