I Say, "Can you really see?"

Old glory still flies on high.

But really, what does it mean anymore?

Despised abroad.

Mourned at home.

Old fools use it as a power tool.

Young fools are mesmerized into silence.

Its meaning has been cheapened.

An icon drained and ashen.

The reds and the blues have bled so much shit.

Its hard to tell the color of that flag.

Is it purple or almost brown?

If in resemblance of Mr. Grey,

Surely it would be threadbare in tatters.

The country it is views itself as whole,

Yet the rampant rotting and putridness belie its vile being.

A raised torch no longer casts a beacon,

Inbound cargo tossed overboard and wished away.

Walls are going up.

People are exported.

The suits control the money.

Money controls the suits.

The dream?

Or just a prosaic pipedream?

A yellowed paper that no longer yields its strength,

Corruption took that away.

Old men as authors suitable for an old set of documents.

Oh for a merciful death while some dignity still remains.

New life maybe can be breathed.

But not from the mouth of status quo.

Not from the throat of corporate sponsorship.

Certainly not out the lungs of the good-old-boys network.

Lies lies lies.

Oy that sun spotted rag still flutters,

Over the land of the [semi] free [thanks to the Patriot Act],

And the home of its grave.

We need a new icon.

A new dream.

By ballot and by action.

A grand jeté of sorts.

A good kick in the pants to board a better aircraft.

Common goals.

Real Glory flies on indefinitely.