America America, I've given you all and now I'm nothing America, two dollars and twenty-seven cents January 17, 1956 I can't stand my own mind America, when will we end the human war Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb I don't feel good, don't bother me I won't write my poem till I'm in my right mind America, when will you be angelic When will you take off your clothes When will you look at yourself through the grave When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites America, why are your libraries full of tears America, when will you send your eggs to India I'm sick of your insane demands When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks America, after all, it is you and I who are perfect, not the next world Your machinery is too much for me You made me want to be a saint There must be some other way to settle this argument Burroughs is in Tangiers I don't think he'll come back, it's sinister Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical joke I'm trying to come to the point I refuse to give up my obsession America, stop pushing, I know what I'm doing America, the plum blossoms are falling I haven't read the newspapers for months Everyday somebody goes on trial for murder