One day, a decree comes down.
Put your money in the bouncy house.
Then forty-seven white guys are invited in
to shove your savings into their slacks.
When they’re finished, they order steak,
smoke cigars, shoot guns, get crunk,
fondle women and children and
make fun of people with disabilities.
Almost half of all Americans tell pollsters
that they love this new bouncy house.
We are really easy to sneak up on.
You just tell us there’s a monster out there –
the blacks, the browns, the gays, the clowns,
Terrorists masquerading as unattended minors.
Behind the cricket moan and gunfire,
whispers begin amid the dawning
and doffing of the workers’ quarters.
They speak in a local dialect
long prohibited inside the park,
hatching a plan to storm the bouncy house
and begin building the mountain upon
which this all was allegedly already built.