They land in some four-wheeled auto-mechanism.
Speaking multiply dialects of another world,
Their faces are rough and burned,
I hear they are from lands surrounded by sand.
Living somewhere south,
for I have never heard of any-such-thing.
Some swarm the borders like wasps.
Colliding and consuming and dawdling.
Carriers of other lives.
I see myself in their brown eyes,
But it must be an illusion.
Their terrestrial tricks.
They grab all they can.
Work and eat and live and work and eat and live.
They are like mules asking for no wage.
No wonder they like it here.
Here their hands find grip and scratch and scrap.
But, they leave nothing and take everything.
I have built this fortress for us, not them.
Who are they you ask?
Why aliens of course, can’t you see?
White barriers now board their houses and futures and souls.
The aches and pains come from being separated from themselves.
But, this land was not built for all, didn’t you know?
We can’t accept their free wage, nor taxes, nor income.
They make too much prosperity and happiness must have a fee.
For this country and me and you, but not you
You are the ant that lifts more than you’re share,
for some worthless monarch who sits and eats and watches and laughs.
Why, we have run out of pesky peons to torture,
so why not you?
