They flatten our land with armored tanks and spray paint our homes with full metal jackets bullets.
They give mi padre 86 months over some shit they’re sellin’ and makin’ millions off back in Colorado.
They dog-ear our resumes and tuck it under the bottom of the stack because they can’t pronounce our first name.
They pull us over cause we gave em’ a “suspicious, incriminating look” through the eyes of our jet black sunglasses.
They mock us when we talk about not fitting in. “Then why don’t you go back to your country?”
They tell us that we have the criminal element. “It’s just part of their culture, ya know?”
They pull up “stats” to prove how lazy we are. “Why can’t they get a decent job like the rest of us blue collar Americans?”
They wonder where all our fathers are, not realizing they’ve imprisoned or killed a couple thousand. “The problem with them is their lack of father figures, ya understand, little Johnny?”