With apologies to Phil West

I swear I didn’t notice the resemblances in the first lines until after this was complete…a “My Sweet Lord” defense, to be sure, but the honest truth.

IN A PERFECT WORLD, ROY HORN WOULD SAVE AMERICA FROM ITSELF

Let me say this: I am not Siegfried, I am not Roy, I cannot make anything disappear —
so, Lord, let me give up.
Let me surrender my head to the tiger, and

into his jaws, that ivory ridged answer, I shall commend my spirit.
Let me surrender into a peace beyond understanding. Let me learn to think in “dramedy”.
Let me think in high definition of what it’s like to be at war,

and if my left eye opens,
I will wash it in a pool of agreement and dry it
with a flag.

Let’s hear the rollcall again: call out the names of those fated
to die for ill-determined causes;
think for instance of the Flight 11 passengers

watching the river passing
too close below, seated under the watchful eyes
of robots praising razors. Lord,

I want to set their cries to music, so somebody teach me
the chords to a country song. Somebody
piss me a gasoline river, then pass me a lighter. Somebody

pardon me for being incautious – hell,
I had a hard life, was raised among Masonite paneling, insult flavored rugs,
marketing for the survival of the thinnest —

don’t I deserve a shot at redemption? Don’t I owe myself a chance to be
passionate for something definable?
It was promised to me that I’d be unique.

We were all supposed to be unique together.
Isn’t this world supposed to be ours
as part of that bargain?

It’s just that I’m finding it hard to believe right now as I wonder
why Roy wasn’t faster, swinging the mike at the tiger’s head
and leaping back in time to laugh and laugh

at how the handsome teeth closed on air. Why were free will and shiny magic
not enough to stop the blood?
Why isn’t history dead? Why are we still at war?

It’s just too damn hard to think through all the roaring. Everybody dies
for something these days: somebody, anybody,
just tell me something simple I can pretend to die for.