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© Jackson Rodgers
Well, hello, my son, how’s pre-life treating you?
You’d best beg for a pardon, for I’ve been programmed to
Drag you out of that bliss of not knowing the difference
And force upon you all the joy in my selective remembrance
You’d live in the land of the god-fearin’ brave
Who ain’t scared of nothin’, ‘cept the end bein’ the grave
And four-letter words and the dissent their lines were torn with
Newfangled ideas and the bodies they were born with
It’s overrun by this cult of arbitrary love
Who posit eternal torture on the wings of a dove
And who at Islamic countries stand in disgusted awe
While handing out free copies of Mosaic law
Whom, if you ask certain questions, by you’re bound to be fought
Like, “Why praise an achiever who knows challenge not?”
Or, “Why worship a power for being greater than we
When we’re only less ’cause it made us be?”
And yet, despite what I’ve said, I’d still like to meet you
But don’t get your fears up, I don’t ever plan to
But let no one confuse you, it’s in no way selfless
For me to do as I please and deny myself this
Still, my home is a land with a feature so high
We feel safe while we decide how we wait ’til we die
And here the bones of the worker form the businessman’s crutch
But it’s the best place on Earth…
Though that ain’t sayin’ much
