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.

© Harold Pinter, January 2003