O North America, how do you do it?
This teetering, awkward balancing act?
Your bulky mass,
on a tiny tip,
is leaning
imperceptibly,
swaying to the rhythm of
exploited tribes' mute drums.
The West, the best,
the way of life
that sailors sought to claim,
that Fount of Youth
they never found;
they gave up just the same.
Exulting shores and ringing bells
have lost their first intent
and have become funereal
to see their Captain bent
over the side of the deck, vomiting.
(...how sweet the sound / that saved a retch like me)
You're a tight rope, teeter-totter continent,
North America,
striking a balance like a one-legged dancer
on a skyscraper ledge.
Splat (let's hope not).
You've lost your moral gyroscope
and set yourself on end
to spin and turn under the sun
and wobble with the wind.
Careful now.
Everyone's watching.