This poem first appeared in Counterpunch magazine on 10/10/2022.
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I read somewhere in a book (I then reviewed)
that Christopher Columbus was so stoned
on 'spices' he didn't care where he was.
They were all wild ind'gens to him (n'est-ce pas?);
thousands would become sex slaves and be boned
by mighty whitey aristocrats, who'd
come to borrow a cup of cane sugar
and talk sh*t over a cup of hot tea
before heading off to conquer new lands
with Old World diseases -- early Ayn Rands
who shrugged and snuffed 'coke' at the misery
they brought, their wide smiles all Freddy Krueger.
So it's the Columbus Day long weekend
Pass the bong I wish to try out my new blend.
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