In every non-tumultuous moment derived
There would be three of them
Where you could barely maintain your sanity.
For every minute of peace you stole
There would be ten
Where chaos would fuck you in dark corners
And all the open spaces
You like to stand in.
Born a bakers son
The Ides of March would never be the same
Only 18 years to teach him
All the labels they could smack on him.
“First you are a son
You must learn my able trade.
Then you are a man
And I’ll show you how they are made.
We all grew up Catholic
So on your knees you go
Guilt has to follow you everywhere
Be mindful of what you grow.
Then you are American
So you’ll need this list of rules
Don’t ever learn Geography
So every other country thinks we’re fools.
You can forget to make up your own mind
What your parents don’t teach you, media will
You open up your mind for a second
And suddenly it is nothing but a landfill.
You are white so you should climb the ladder fine
Make sure you check that box on every form
You’ll need to raise a family and have a job
To succumb to the vicious ‘norm.’
You will have to always act properly
Not like your Navy Crewmen.
Please be responsible about yourself
And try to forget that you are human.”