The checkpoint’s closed.
Our young soldiers,
Foaming over contested turf,
Stymied by executive orders,
Have been relocated.

“Indigenous” cousins, though,
Capitulate not one single apartment,
Ask new roads,
Covet our “sheep pens,”
Also, our women.

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According to several million true bloods,
Is worth kowtowing to cowards,
Forgetting historic strictures,
Sidling over the edge of decency.

If I brought a plastic gun into a bank,
Ran the works on YouTube,
Called it art,
Claimed nearsightedness, perhaps economic stupidity,
Would I win?

Modern submission’s more than marching toward Birkenau.
Today, we’re to regard, as small payment,
Land, loved ones, ideals.
Unlike photo moments,
Peace ain’t priceless.