theories of something menacingly familiar
red, white, and blue, and i'm prouder than you
guns loaded in a hundered million flag waving hands
hotter by the bullets they fire and the death they conspire
wait in clouds of smoke for the desperate demands
after all shots rang out before examination raised doubt
better not to think the paradoxes and ockham's razor cut deep
remembering marching men with blinders painted on them
dramatic messages of foreign evils haunts in sleep
it seems so true if one hunts monsters as you do
the monsters you hunt are quite possibly you.