On the south western prairie where the coyote calls,
the river cuts chasms and great canyon walls.
And the weather’s intemperate with short violent squalls,
on the banks of the old Rio Grande.
On the banks of the Rio, they huddle in vans.
Up to the minute men with cameras and jams.
In the spin of their bio, they must be The Man;
on the banks of the old Rio Grande.
When shock jock and flunky, stir up the pot,
the airwaves run riot, with rants red and hot.
So it’s ‘Roger’, and ‘Over’, and dusted like Fogo;
as the wetbacks go native, the natives go: ‘Go! Go! ‘
Testosterone junkies, armed to the teeth.
A borderline madness, the fear underneath
a skein that is country, the holster and sheath,
on the banks of the old Rio Grande.
On the banks of the Rio, they coddle their plans,
both keystone and cowboy with help from the klan;
the new vigilante at last makes a stand,
on the banks of the old Rio Grande.
On the south western prairie where the coyote call,
in busloads they ferry the raw dreams of all;
(who’d work for slave wages, yet still be enthralled)
on the banks of the old Rio Grande.
On the banks of the Rio, like brothers in bands.
Up to the minute men with gadgets and scans.
So are true patriots: fools lost in the sands,
on the banks of the old Rio Grande.
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