You accuse me of being a red necked fascist.
Gee, I thought liberals were supposed to be nice.
You trick me.
You stick your hatred on my forehead like a scarlet letter
On my conservative thoughts.
Do I have Hawthorne on my spine?
Am I the title of the misjudged?
You don’t exist for me
But you hate me like a summer shower of nails.
You can’t understand why I am uncomfortable around gays,
Don’t want transgenders in my bathroom,
Dislike Muslim suicide bombers,
Believe that Islam is less a religion and more of a political state.
You ask why I hate immigrants who want to blow me up?
You call them freedom fighters rather than freedom spiters.
You forget the dead at Ground Zero
And apologize for your Islamophobia.
You can’t see why I feel racism is a joke
And diversity is a failure to worship homogeneity.
Think, if you can, bigotry is less of a sin than rape.
You are so stubbornly liberal that you hide beneath
The robes of the new left wing Klu Klux Klan.
Obama brought back the sixties and I am sixty-nine.
I once ski raced with a bib—69.
That was fun.
Progressive is a euphemism for lack of progress.
Flo is the empty voice of communism in the Progressive commercial.
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