The (American) Wronged

Mirror, mirror, on the wall
Who is the most abused of us all?
Maybe the animals
Led into a small
Cramped truck
Bodies pressed together
Like stuffed animals in a bin
But when the bolt is shot into their
Heads
The pain is real
When they are chained
Upside down
The pain is very real
And when finally the knife comes forth
The blood
Is so, so real
Or maybe it's the poor
Whose wallets are chomped away
By the greedy
That can never have too much
Money, houses
Boats, clothes
Food for four
Sure doesn't seem like much
Until there's none left
Or maybe it's the gays
Shoved in the dusty corners
Of society
And trampled on like grass
And laughed at like seals
Balancing the red ball on their heads
They're made fun of
And beat up
For loving just
The wrong sex
Or maybe it's the people
Who fight for good but are labeled
Wrong!
Whose hands are smacked
And bruised
For trying to reveal the truth
America, home of the brave?
Or
America, home of the mixed up, mashed up
Wronged.