If I tell you of my heart I should tell you of my home and the
And the places I have lived and the land that I have roamed.
As a child, as a gypsy, as a tramp and then a thief.
It’s the truth I’ll be confessing in the hopes of some relief.
See my heart is not an organ it’s the address where I live
the tribes in which I’ve traveled and the things I can’t forgive.
Like the lack of understanding and compassion and decor
while America is weeping like a two-buck jilted whore.
In the land of milk and honey with its sunny apple pie
Little hands are in the White House And their serving porn and lies.
And I’m feeling all conflicted and evicted from my flag
cause it doesn’t seem to notice that my child is in drag,
and he needs to use the bathroom and there’s no place for a piss
and the liberals are posting hashtag we’re not this.
But we are. Cause we’re united in our U.S. kind of way.
In secrets we’ve been keeping and words that we do not say.
Words like faggots, niger, dego, junkie, redneck, kike and spic
It’s the true united anthem of the busted and the sick.
And the common man is restless and the news does not seem sound.
And we’re building walls, and running all the good folks out of town.
But I can’t blame my Country till I tell you of myself
and confess my own infringements like a good elf on the shelf.
Of the salty shore of Jersey, Springsteen country I was raised.
Where we lived on buttered ends and all the fucks we never gave.
Where we learned to keep a distance, smirk like sly comedians.
And the boys who wouldn’t be broken would be bullied into men.
On the playground where the sissy would be tortured into silence
and my Christian heart would learn a grow a tolerance for violence.
And I raise my hand in question, cause I thought it made no sense.
How could God not love Her children, why would God put up a fence?
I felt my good blood boil when I thought I saw enough.
But church bells rocked me back to sleep, though the king was in the buff.
And the hands that sought protection through confession never heard
were the same hands pressed in prayer and ordained worthy of the word.
How strongly they admonish just to amputate the truth.
Forgive me, Father I have sinned and find no comfort in your booth.
You don’t represent my stories, and you’ve clocked me in your myths.
where I’m cast as whore or virgin, to negate my other gifts.
And you waved a crooked finger while you rob a childhood
And you preach a broken gospel while you sell the doctor good.
And your Gods have all been males like the presidents and POPES
And the female wage is shy of truth and justice has no hope.
If you want to show compassion how bout we start with that?
How bout we teach the children that a pussy is a cat?
Sooth your sister’s sorrows and say, “please don’t pick your scabs.”
Just ride it out, it’s no big deal if your bodies up for grabs.
And then we all remembered cause the memory is there.
The glance, the gaze, unwelcome ways got tangled in our hair.
The moment we were branded that summed us up as game.
Not whole and holy woman, but two boobs, a hole, and shame.
But cover cost for the Viagra to ensure you come correct.
Withhold her pills, deny her thrills, and leave her with the check.
Send hearts filled with dictations though she’s still illiterate.
Under-wires, boost them higher make some money off that tit.
Post her face in all the tabloids, burn her daily, brand her twice
And if anyone should help her, turn those good men back into mice.
Point the figure over there where education is with held and
the threat of rape adorns the scape and lives unparalleled.
But let’s not take a tally here. Let’s just drink, and all get drunk
When suffering depression, blame it on the time of month.
Let’s not take a true assessment, let’s not hold it up to light.
Let’s not be too bold, for we’ve been told, we do not have the rights.
Save your wisdom for when words are really worth their weight
And the owner of my body is no longer for debate.
Don’t put lipstick on a dead girl, don’t string up your pretty prose.
Don’t pretend you’re doing something to relieve her of the blows.
Raise your daughter, with the confidence to feel that she is able
Is a joke if you have left, no empty seat about your table.
Raise your daughter to have courage and to truly find her VOICE
is drained of all validity, When she has not the choice.
If you want the truth you’ll need to know the places we have lived.
You’ll need to know the trauma of the fucks we didn’t give.
You’ll need to look still deeper to the words you didn’t say
the roles that were forbidden, the inequality of pay, and the constant degradation, and the branding and the burn, and the higher education never offered never earned.
From a country of warmongers who still fears our bloody show
We’ve landscaped our mother’s nature to ensure she will not grow.
In a land of opportunity, her script is seeled with vows
And the beat, it goes on playing, to the slaughtering of cows.
So my sweet, my dear, my valentine, my fellow country men,
It’s not the type of love note, you were hoping I would send.
But our rivers all run red and our children all are blue
and I heard you promise. once that you would do all you could do.
But I got a funny feeling that the ceiling won’t be smashed and
The house will go on burning leaving nothing in the ash.
And we’ll buckle from the weight of our own domestic violence.
And where we once stood brave, we will sure fall the silenced.
But before we all hit bottom from the weight of all the lies
here’s a super size of truth being served without the fries.
Though the story has been twisted, tampered, broken down and botched.
There’s a swelling of a new one and it says “Not on my watch.”
They are gathering in packs and their taking to the street
And their linking arms in unity against the mad man’s tweets.
they are rising like a sun and their brilliant and their light
And their coming round the bend and their gonna make it right.
They are stronger now than ever
and their gathering some steam.
They’ve been trained for this hour
you can hear their engines scream.
And the Dalai Lama notes as he bowed his head in sermon,
“let this broken world be saved by the modern western woman.”
From New Jersey to Atlanta to the Sunnyside of Queens
to the studios of LA and the whole Las Vegas scene.
From the noble tower of Willis to New Orleans Masquerade.
And the 50 state of disgrace where a woman under-paid.
You can hear her humming softly you can hear her closing in.
She will rises oh don’t you worry and she’ll sanctify our sins.
And the old will surely crumble and the flood will wash it down
Cause she will not be persuaded when they lay their money down.
She is serving up the truth with a mother’s mad conviction
She is scared, she’s power she’s a whole and holy vixens.
And she does not come with blood and she does not beckon war
And she does not seem to answer of you call her bitch or whore.
She is meeting in the back room and her counsel is divine
Arise Arise Arise, my sister, arise, my dear, it’s time.
O beautiful for spacious skies,
For amber waves of grain,
For purple mountain majesties
Above the fruited plain!
God shed her grace on thee
And crown thy good with sisterhood
From sea to shining sea!
From the mountains to the prairies To the oceans white with foam
Waking up my dear America, my Valentine, my home.
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Maureen Muldoon is The Spiritual Vixen, a happiness Pied Piper, intuitive vision caster, fearless activist, writer, speaker, storyteller and thought leader. She is the spiritual director of SpeakEasy Spiritual Community and creative director of Voice Box. She hosts conversations that inspire individuals and organizations to get on course with their own brilliance. She blogs at ~ MaureenMuldoon.com and Vlogs on YOUTUBE