My great-great -grandfather,
times 100, lived in London once,
he and his family.
My God told me
that Britain is my land.
So, I killed the king,
expelled the British imposters,
and returned my people
to the land of our ancestors.
I felt the rush of adrenaline.

I declared a new “Ismylandia”
and Ismylandia Defense Forces.
The surviving British imposters
call it disaster, their “Nakba,”
but I call it Independence Day.
I felt the rush of adrenaline.

In my new state
with a new undefeated army,
I built an elegant morality,
like an engineer designing
a modern building,
not a child playing with Legos.
I felt the rush of adrenaline.

My IDF, the most moral
of any army in the world,
gave a fair warning,
“I shall kill all who pretend
to defend Britain against me,
those who call me occupier.
I and my god know
this is my land, my history.”

Mine is the one and only
true democracy in all of Europe,
as others dirty their hands
with other systems.
I grant myself an award,
“Best Democracy in the Region.”

Every full-blooded Ismylandian
is a first-class citizen.
The half-blood is a second.
The no blood is a third.
The remaining Brits are on
the lowest rung of my ladder.

I am not so religious.
I am not sure if God hears me
speaking his tongue or
smiles at me as his Chosen One.
Yet I feel the rush of adrenaline.

International law whispers
that I am an occupier,
that I am apartheid.
Human right organizations
say I am “violent and barbaric,”
but they can’t move a stone.
The powerful fear me.
I serve their interests and
they serve me with their veto.
I feel the rush of adrenaline.

Do not fear, World, I kill no one.
Those who stand in the way
of my bayonets and bullets
disturb the peace
and slay themselves.
I feel the rush of adrenaline.