Harold PinterJanuary 22, 2003
Here they go again, The Yanks in their armoured parade Chanting their ballads of joy As they gallop across the big world Praising America's God.
The gutters are clogged with the dead The ones who couldn't join in The others refusing to sing The ones who are losing their voice The ones who've forgotten the tune.
The riders have whips which cut. Your head rolls onto the sand Your head is a pool in the dirt Your head is a stain in the dust Your eyes have gone out and your nose Sniffs only the pong of the dead And all the dead air is alive With the smell of America's God.
