

Others come from other shores,

and enter through the golden doors —

with welfare checks, they eat their fill,

and forced I am to foot the bill.

The cities burst with fraud and scheme —

all are on the dole, it seems,

with laughter’s roar, they lie and cheat

while I work to foot the bill.

Their bodies fat, their wallets thin,

they swan about without chagrin —

with aching joints in winter’s chill

I labor long to foot the bill.

And as I work the whole day through,

from Congress, madness does ensue

as laws are passed to keep me screwed —

and, of course, I foot their bill.

Expected are we working men

to, in silence, be content,

to never protest or dissent —

to shut our mouths and foot the bills,

but tired is my sweetheart’s smile —

she’s had no weekend for a while —

we both work to feed our child

and barely pay the past due bills,

but I’m told I must give more —

“Whiteness”, something bad, deplored,

gave us roof, and food, and floor,

despite my hands that pay the bills,

despite the missing sleep from fright,

despite the screaming pains at night,

despite the dreadful marriage-fights

of burdened man and worried wife,

despite my back, my failing sight,

I’m told I stand at grander heights

and never will I know the plights

of those of whom I foot the bills,

but hear and listen carefully —

I have no vellum-sheet degree

from a university —

but even if my joints are shot,

dull of mind and wit I’m not,

and for this you should be wrought

with fear that we know the plot

to take the power from our hands,

the wilting right to choose a man

who takes the reigns to lead the land —

and did you not expect a stand

against your greedy overreach,

against intent to now impeach?

This is but a sorry breach

of justice, of a higher will —

but know this now: our blood does boil —

fists are clenched, the land is roiled —

of turmoil, sing the wind and soil,

the sun and sea, the plains and hills.

Do what you must: have your circus,

sing and dance as you betray us

and walk the path so treasonous —

History ‘s a fine, old windmill —

and in this turn, we may just rise,

we may just fight to turn the tide,

and in this fight, give up our lives —

we’ll pay in blood that final bill —

but with that comes a quake, a rupture

to our lovely nation’s future —

that’s fine — we’ll again rebuild,

and with joy, we’ll pay that bill.

This poem, written during a road trip across Middle America, reflects attitudes, views, and beliefs of people encountered. None were too happy about the possibility of civil disorder, but most saw it as an inevitable result of organized efforts against the POTUS.