Give me your guns, your blacks, your browns, your poor white trash

Your flotsam and jetsam, on broad shores

Turn in your needles, lines, your rocks and dust

Stand to my front and claim I am nothing

Call my woman’s form weak

When I hold your liberty in my hands

Assault me, beat me, then tell me

It is only words. They do not matter.

Their meaning, just for kicks. We all do it.

Just your locker room bravado

Shall I talk of burning flags, of slavery?

Shall I speak to the danger of him, or her, or them?

The colour of their skin, the dullness in their eyes

The shape of her, the smell of her, the lust for her

All words, just words, none mean anything. Not at all.

They’re just gays and fags and queers

Chicks and pieces of ass, sweet thangs and tarts

Just words, just talk.

Tough on immigrants, check their religion, national registers

Just words.

Camps to hold them before we deport them. Just words.

Only words, weak words. That’s why propaganda doesn’t work. Does it?

Does it work?

Weak, watery, flows of a pen.

Have I got this wrong?

I thought, surely thought, words are power. Words are truth. Words are mighty and great.

They raise to anger. They are tools and weapons.

But only to the listener.

Never mind. You are right. Just words. Just talk. Harmless.

With guns and drugs and race and rape and total lack of respect

It will take more than him and his words to make me great again.

It will take so much more than him.