America the beautiful, oh how the eagle soars,
over mountains majesty into countless futile wars.
From sea to shining sea she reigns,
her people free and brave,
defender of the small, protector of the weak,
with not one visible slave.
She comes out first in every race,
and it's no surprise
that every American victory precedes foreign demise.
America was first in space, at least they tell us so,
it seems she tells us lies as much as she tells us 'no'.
A rich and vibrant history she carries below her wing,
and songs of the past dance on her beak-covered tongue,
yet still I can't help wondering
how such a strong country could get Alzheimer's so young?
Paul Revere is buried now,
George Washington is dead,
preserved only by the Masons and Mt. Rushmore's stony head.
But beyond Rushmore, before Revolutionary War...
I've heard of a place where the eagle used to soar,
a place of profound beauty and freedoms galore.
For America was not always red, white, and blue.
No, she was once every green and every golden hue.
(But that was long before she grew.)
Yosemite and Yellowstone.
Tahoe and the Rockies.
And who remembers the Oregon Trail?
It seems, to our dear majestic eagle, that these wonders are the things of tall tales.
America, I pledge not to you,
but to your forgotten past,
a era in time I thought could remain,
but as it turns out, couldn't last.
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