My tiny fist will crush your barren land,
with skin glowing above your hungry heads.
You’ll wear my “Made In-” clothes and rep the brand,
or on your empty soil you’ll be dead.
Bombs will rain, destroy the phony palace,
recall the Cold War and our nation’s win.
The rounds will not be shot with any malice,
but now it’s time to answer for your sins.
I am a God to all of my people,
subjects think I control the light and rain.
You’re the ones who should go towards the steeple,
praying your heads don’t fall to Earth in vain.
America may take the shorter battle,
but nukes will soon be riding in the saddle.