Mrs. American Pie (American Pie/ Don McLean) A long, long time ago, caught in reverie for humanity’s future equality, I can still remember with elation how certain nostalgic music touched my heart and soul. Ah the rhythm and blues and rock and roll, Singing and dancing to heal the heart and soul if only for a while. But the Woke agenda shook me to the core and made me shiver, With every disgusting doctor butchering confused children of different genders to deliver. These children need love, prayers, guidance, and patience. Denying basic truths and biology shocking the nation. Molech and Baal sacrificial blood splattered leaving children scarred, bruised and battered. That’s the day the music died. Bad news 24/7 on the worldwide net drenched in a web of lies I couldn’t take one more step Playing Russian Roulette with words on social media, a cesspool of hate. While others hack your account exploiting your name and pictures without a care or regret. I left to clear my mindset. Bye, bye Mrs. American Pie. I can’t remember the day Miss American Pie lost her way, Babylon the Great, now a widowed bride Nations drank from her cup of corruption and sexual immorality. The earth grew rich from her excessive luxuries. No doubt the music died in the Trail of Tears. The ethnic cleansing and mass murder of Indigenous people caused by Andrew Jackson’s racist bigoted fears We lost part of our soul, all be told. It brought humanity down, in that disgraceful landslide That’s the day the music died. Bye, bye, Mrs. American Pie. Another fork in the road and America took yet another wrong step, Black racial cleansing and lynching, while many slept. And now, the alarming Texas voter purge, insecurities of hate causing fear to surge. Corrupt Texas Attorney General Ken Paxton is kicking down doors to intimidate Latin American voters, Blatantly committing human rights violations against LULAC’s righteous warriors. But something touched me deep inside Because America is even letting her own hungry homeless children die. Some Americans are saving nickels and saving dimes just to put food on the table All the while giving tax breaks to the rich with continued bailouts and raises. Gorge yourselves on corporate greed while ignoring hungry children to feed. Such heartless covetous people filled with hate and hypocrisy on full display unworthy of any praises. I will always remember, and I do cry Because that’s the day the music died. Bye, bye, Mrs. American Pie. Shout out to Creedence Clearwater’s ‘Fortunate Son’ clairvoyant lyrics Calling truth to power, Because the truth is sometimes sour No hysterics Wars created by rich men arguments the poor men fight and die Some folks are born made to wave the flag, that is red, white and blue. “Hail to the chief” Some are born with that silver spoon while the middle class is overworked, overtaxed and underpaid. Uncle Sam pointing that cannon at you until you’re six feet under. Can’t let you rest in peace because your family is burdened with your death tax. Americans buy a house on a piece of land; government can take it away claiming imminent domain. Dam is about to burst because the government is full of cracks. We have a debt surplus, while the rich are getting richer, and the poor are getting poorer. That’s the day the music died. Bye, bye Mrs. American Pie. Drove my Mercedes to sing Karaoke with my friends but the establishment was dry, Some businesses couldn’t recover from Covid-19 lockdowns and all its travails, And them good ole moms were looking forward to some R & R with a little wine to no avail. Mom’s night out is essential because life isn’t flawless. We love our children and our families so it’s no sacrifice We started singing bye, bye, Mrs. American Pie Drove my Mercedes to Karaoke but the establishment was dry. And them good ole moms were looking forward to some wine The day the music died. Bye, bye, Mrs. American Pie. I didn’t write the book of love But I’ve read the utmost love story, the Bible. And yes, I have faith in God above, Respect the Trinity, The Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost Music can’t save your mortal soul, but it can lift you up when you’re feeling down, it’s vital. Music can heal your heart especially when someone has toyed with it or torn it apart. Never truly been in love before but maybe one certain man could’ve been the one. Not really sure. He never gave me flowers or wrote my name in the sand. My feelings for him were real and pure His dreamy eyes melt my heart, he makes me feel safe and I can’t tell you why His voice is the only one I want to hear even when he makes me cry But my clueless Mr. Darcy is lost in translation, and I find it rather amusing We’ve never danced not even real slow I was hoping for a little romance but perhaps his well has run dry. But I do dig those rhythm and blues along with classical music to sooth my soul. Now for almost ten years I’ve been separated and on my own With scripture written in the notebook of my heart And a sweet beautiful harmonious melody in my soul It was Elvis Presley who said, “Talent is being able to sell what you’re feeling.” So, moss does grow fat on a rollin’ stone. At least for the super talented, wealthy and elites getting their big piece of the pie. Some millionaires still can’t get no satisfaction. But one fine day God will separate the wheat and the tares for every being's action. If someone is evil and corrupt, their wealth is irrelevant. They were singing bye, bye, Mrs. American Pie. Oh, and while King Jesus was looking down The orange jester Trump stole Messiah’s thorny crown, The courtroom was adjourned The verdict was returned. 34 criminal felony charges And he’s still the GOP presidential nominee. No error in margins, While disrespecting American veterans, the disabled, women, and other ethnic groups, Not to be outdone by the January 6 insurrection/ coup. His sidekick JD Vance wants to implement President Andrew Jackson’s purge play. America’s corrupt MAGA Supreme Court Justices are all about Quid pro quo, Regard themselves supreme, nine crooked court jesters in black robes bought and paid for by one Harlan Crow. Nemo judex in causa sua, That’s the day the music died. They were singing bye, bye, Mrs. American Pie. And while Trump read Hitler’s Mein Kampf Kamala Harris kicked Joe Biden out of the park. She was celebrating and cackling in the dark Because a black and Indian woman might just beat a white orange man For the highest office in the land. That’s the day the music died They were singing bye, bye, Mrs. American Pie Drove my Mercedes to Karaoke but the establishment was dry Singin’ this’ll be the day that I die This’ll be the day that I die. Helter skelter in a summer swelter The Slimy Silicon Valley venture capitalists want control under government shelter. Welcome to the jungle, take it day by day, America doesn’t want a dictator, Trump must go away, While a traumatized nation never sleeps, Chaos, looting and burning in the streets. That’s the day the music died. They were singing bye, bye, Mrs. American Pie Oh, and as I watched him on stage, True American Patriots were blind with rage, Because the orange jester fooled the crowds Repeating, brainwashing the masses With his regurgitated propaganda slogan Make America Great Again. A wolf in sheep's clothing has deceived the church. They have made Trump their golden calf, Their Apollyon, That’s the day the music died. Bye, bye, Mrs. American Pie. And as the flames climbed high into the night To light the sacrificial alt-right, I saw Satan laughing all the way to the bank with delight, Catching a flight On Trump Force One Not worried about jetlag. The orange jester wrapped himself in the American Flag, His grift is a bottomless pit, a delusional game, it’s insane. It’s all about himself, power and money, money, money It’s about the price tag, It’s all ‘bout the money cha-ching, cha-ching. The day the music died. They’re on the Highway to Hell. AC/DC sang it so well, They purchased a season ticket on a one-way ride Their friends are gonna be there too. They were singing Bye, bye, Mrs. American Pie. Wars and rumors of wars, Russia and Ukraine, Israel and Hamas, China and Taiwan, The red and the blue pill paradigm, The resurrected racial wars Escalating into civil unrest, While the UK burns and we’re not even done yet. Humanity has failed the moral test, Bye, bye, Mrs. American Pie. Choose who you will serve because public servants no longer serve you. Jesus Christ is the way, the truth, and the life. Relinquish stiff necks, harden hearts and all strife. Just like video killed the radio and cell phones killed basic people social skills, Klaus Schwab, Trump, JD Vance, Project 2025, Blackrock, and the elites are coming for you. Both Uncle Sam and Uncle Tom will destroy the mortal man And after Sodom and Gomorrah burned down to the ground, The remaining few couldn’t hear the music play, not even a sweet gentle lullaby sound. So, the few good men, women and children headed for the coast For they worshipped The Father, Son and the Holy Ghost The day the music died, And they were singing bye, bye, Mrs. American Pie. Drove my Mercedes to sing Karaoke but the establishment was dry The man said the music won’t play And good ole moms and dads were drinking wine Here’s a toast to the Alpha and Omega, the one that is, always has been and is to come, The Father, Son and the Holy Ghost They were singing bye, bye, Mrs. American Pie. With no time left to start again, Trump has been indicted again, Jack Smith be nimble, Jack Smith be quick Jack Smith be cautious with Judge Cannon and Apollyon While you jump over the candlestick. Now the halftime was a sweet perfume, While the mob bosses singing snitches, Twitter-X was all in stiches The UAW bosses suing your rich britches. FYI, it’s illegal to fire workers for going on strike. Ya’ll violated federal labor laws. Not appreciating the working- class is primitive. “Work and pray, live on hay, you’ll get pie in the sky when you die.” – Workers of the World, Pro Union or Anti-Union, Yin and Yang, Police and firefighters keep society safe, that’s not a matter of opinion. Some see the world eaten up by monstrous greed and fakery, Forgetting to be genuine, wanting to fit in, embracing delusion and hypocrisy. Cross the picket line and you’re a scab, can’t feed your family, you’re a deadbeat dad. Life is a balancing act, it’s not always fair, sometimes situations are bad. The day the music died. Bye, bye Mrs. American Pie. Guess it’s all ‘bout the money, cha-ching, cha-ching, All about the price tag, Got the Red flag, Maybe next time don’t brag. Everyone wants a piece of the American pie. If the boss treats The Help like crap, The boss will be served Minny’s special chocolate poop pie. No doubt some mean bosses already ate Minny’s Pie and want cake too. They just don’t realize it because they’re lost in space and forgot about the human race They were singing bye, bye Mrs. American Pie Drove my Mercedes to Karaoke but the establishment was dry. Them good ole workers were drinking whiskey n’ rye sing’ this’ll be the day that I die, Dreaming of that sweet pie in the sky. This’ll be the day that’ll die. Bye, bye, Mrs. American Pie. Corporate America’s goal is about profit issues and not people issues. That’s a hard pill to swallow, but for most, (not all) it’s true. Linkin Park sung it best; But In the End it doesn’t really matter. It doesn’t matter how hard you try, time is a valuable thing, watch it fly as the pendulum swings. “I tried so hard and got so far But in the end, it doesn’t even matter I had to fall to lose it all But in the end, it doesn’t even matter.” People do matter, treat others how you want to be treated. In the end it’s not about how hard you worked, your bank account or your zip code. In the end it’s about how you loved family, friends and foe. Through thick and thin, sick or well, rich or poor, be a friend to the end. Don’t let love escape you, seek it, find it and hold on tight before it’s too late. Spend time with your children, don’t hesitate. Before Cat’s in the Cradle sneaks up on you leaving you defeated. I’m an empty nester and miss my three children immensely. Don’t let the music inside you die. Bye, bye, Mrs. American Pie. A generation lost in space, floating around in the ether, But we eventually come to our senses, Cause nothin’ last forever not even hate. And when your fear subsides and there’s no one left to blame Americans will come together in November Rain. Guns N’ Roses because every rose has its thorn Red and Blue states will have some Purple Rain. These colors don’t run America, the democracy one. Dread any unwarranted bloodshed. Bye, bye Mrs. American Pie. So, take it easy. We are Americans, we need to come together. Everyone is created equal by our creator, Both men and women have value in their own right, And together as man and wife. We all have an American dream, Freedom is worth the fight. We’re not a monarchy but a democracy, Bye, bye, Mrs. American Pie. Aretha Franklin sang it best with Respect You’ve come a long way baby. Women were granted the right to vote. No more neglect. Granted the right to open a bank account which is paramount. And in 1963 we were granted equal pay, carving the way For future generations of women to have careers Because no one is going back to The Handmaid’s Tale. That’s nonsensical. Or child slavery where children died in dangerous jobs. No more lives robbed. The day the music died. Bye, bye Mrs. American Pie. A monarch butterfly sees her reflection on the morning dew gracefully dancing to music in a sea of clouds. Left her secure cocoon and expanded her wings, learning to fly by virtue of being free. The well-heeled lepidopterist collects his lions share, a piece of the pie, a trophy wife, His beautiful butterfly displayed for all to see his American dream, a false reality, and so she slowly dies. The day the music died. Bye, bye, Mrs. American Pie. Life’s trials and tribulations bathed in adventure weathering the storm, Now exhausted and alone she sometimes silently cries, from the scars buried in the depths of her soul. She covers her bruises with the best makeup money can buy with her piece of the American Pie. The American dream. For some it’s a betrayal of false hope and so she dies each day little by little inside. The day the music died. Bye, bye, Mrs. American Pie. The red, white, and blue, her warpaint, because he can hurt her physical body, but he cannot have her mind and soul. It’s bought and paid for by the precious blood of Jesus Christ. Living in a suburbia glass house keeping up with the Jones’ Who can throw the first stone? It will certainly boomerang making the rounds. And that’s when you know the music died. The church bells all were broken. Not a word was spoken. And the three men I admire the most. The Father, Son and the Holy Ghost, They caught the last train for the coast, The day, the music died. Bye, bye Mrs. American Pie. I met a man who sang the blues, And I asked him for some happy news, But in a surveillance state, he frowned and walked away. Turning off the mic and stabbing society in the back with the Jagger Cause we just can’t kill the beast. Drowning in propaganda a man comes on the radio telling me useless information Another man on the tv telling others how white their shirts can be Questioning someone’s manhood because he don’t smoke the same cigarettes as he, The day the music died. Bye, bye, Mrs. American Pie. Sign, sign everywhere a sign “Long-haired freaky people need not apply” Sign, sign everywhere a sign and the sign said “Anybody caught trespassin’ will be shot on sight.” Republican, Democratic or Independent, red pill, blue pill, Sometimes we just can’t get no satisfaction. You can't always get what you want, but if you try, you might find you get what you need. However, violence is not the answer. The day the music died. Bye, bye, Mrs. American Pie. I went down to my local church Where I worship, visit and sing with friends But the man said the music don’t play no more. Because the dictator-in-chief is a controlling old hateful bore. That’s the day the music died. Bye, bye, Mrs. American Pie. Drove my Mercedes to the establishment but it was dry And they were singing bye, bye, Mrs. American Pie Singin’ this’ll be the day that I die Hopefully democracy will prevail Because a house divided cannot stand. So, celebrating in the streets children can scream, dance, sing and play With ice-cream cones melting on hot summer days. Ah the sweet scent of summer morn. And poets continue to dream and write of better days As the trees shed their autumn leaves reassuring their beautiful and bountiful return with every breeze. Where words are spoken, laughter heard and songs are sung, Where we can twist and shout if that’s your cup of tea because you are free Especially in the red, white and blue American sky Where freedom rings as sure as American apple pie. God Bless America! The home and land of the free! Singers and songwriters have always made great contributions to our world through their music and lyrics creating nostalgic memories of our moments in time. I hope I have given credit to all those artist's lyrics used in my poem. I was lounging in the swimming pool listening to music and wrote this concoction on my cell phone. I titled it Mrs. American Pie because I believe America has lost her innocence and is heading down the wrong path. One of my all-time favorite songwriters is Don McLean. I would also like to thank Elvis Presley, The Eagles, The Rolling Stones, CCR, Carlos Santana, Johnny Cash, Linkin Park, Guns N' Roses, Aretha Franklin, The Beatles, Harry Chapin, Linda Ronstadt, Meja, Jessie J, Miley Cyrus, Prince, Five Man Electrical Band, AC/DC. (on a personal note) I’m a mother of three intelligent wonderful, amazing and healthy children. Motherhood is my greatest joy, honor, privilege and accomplishment. My kids inspire me to be a better person. My other three babies are with God. Miscarriages and ectopic pregnancies are emotionally devastating and dangerous to women’s health. I’m forever grateful that a doctor was there for me because not even my husband was there for me. On one of my miscarriages, a black nurse was kind enough to hold my hand as I cried before the doctor removed my dead baby from inside. Even now as I’m typing this on my phone, and after many, many years I still cry if I talk about it, which I never do, but I am making an exception due to current circumstances about not allowing exceptions on abortion for danger to the mother, rape or incest. Other women such as Kate Cox from Texas should not have had to fight for medical help by being forced to leave the state to receive lifesaving medical attention. I am pro-life but exceptions must be made for abortion. Seeking to punish or kill both mother and child is an irrational, criminal, and sinful behavior. The system is broken if exceptions are not made. Trump, JD Vance and Project 2025 are fooling themselves thinking they‘re doing God’s work because they are not. They are being hateful self-righteous hypocrites. I think of the kindness of the black nurse. You know when people donate their organs so others can live, does it matter what color of skin was on the outside. If someone saved your life or your child’s life, does it matter what skin color they are? I don’t understand how anyone especially Christians can hate others for how God made them on the outside. Hating feels wrong because it is wrong and it’s a waste of precious time. So, love even if you’re not loved. Forgive so you too can be forgiven but even if you’re not forgiven, you can still forgive others. We all bleed red blood. Blood transfusions save lives. Everyone is someone’s child, and we are all God’s children. God gives us strength and carries us through storms so that we can do the same for others without expecting anything in return. We love for the sake of love not because we expect something in return. If we do get love in return, then that’s a blessed bonus. I myself was a premature baby. Triduum vivere et Amor Fati. Live for three days and love of fate. My faith is in God. I do know that God will reunite me with my lost babies one day.

Young folks these days love to “diagnose” the world around them. Their parents, their friends, even themselves. The language of psychology has seeped so deep into everyday chatter that it spills over onto social media. Words like "co-dependent," "dysfunctional," "trauma response," "projection," and "gaslighting" roll off tongues as easily as if they were born knowing them. But it makes you wonder—how much of this talk is truly helpful, and how much of it is just noise in the wind? Not everyone has the gift of eloquence, the ability to pluck just the right words to frame their experiences. I used to think that this absence of language might keep people from truly grasping their own lives, that without the right words, the truth of what happened would slip through their fingers. And to some degree, I still believe that. Yet, I’ve been surprised time and again by the people I’ve met. They aren’t poetic like John Steinbeck; their vocabularies are small, and they might not know a single scrap of that psychobabble. But with plain, simple sentences, they manage to capture the essence of profound truths. An aunt once remarked, “Jisko jab jana hai, wo likha hai. Na ek minute pehle, na ek minute baad.” (The time when someone has to leave this world is written. Not a minute sooner, not a minute later). Such words come easily from the lips of the old. It’s only recently that I've begun to find solace in these plain truths. You see, growing up, I stumbled into a trap—a trap that ensnared most folks of my age and still keeps many caught in its jaws. We have a way of believing something true only if it’s wrapped in poetic beauty, or if it stands firm on the crutches of science. We buy into it if it carries the weight of philosophical depth or if it’s crafted with a twist that makes us say, “Gotcha!” It’s as if we need these embellishments to validate what we hold to be real. Young folks get a kick out of thinking they’re wiser than the rest, often by echoing what they believe to be sharp reasoning or by repeating some snappy line they’ve picked up—be it from a book or a passing conversation—that challenges the old, straightforward truths. They parade these clever snippets as if they were revelations, dismissing the simplicity of less argumentative, old-fashioned truths. Examples of some of these glib sentences that once enticed each of us are: Everything is subjective; there are no objective truths. All systems are completely corrupt because they are predicated on power. Marriage is just a piece of paper on which two people have signed. Parents are just a means through which life enters the world. Capitalism is inherently exploitative. All relationships are transactional. Societal norms are always oppressive. Belief in God is a coping mechanism and religion is just a means of social control. Everything is a social construct. Most young folks I’ve known have held on to at least a few of these notions at some point. For many, these ideas seem to cover the whole breadth of their beliefs. My advice to them would be to do as I did: Chuck out the whole lot, and start thinking from scratch. Even a blank slate would be better. “He who knows that he is profound strives for clearness; he who would like to appear profound to the multitude strives for obscurity. The multitude thinks everything profound of which it cannot see the bottom; it is so timid and goes so unwillingly into the water.” - Friedrich Nietzsche, The Gay Science.

My grandmother, my father's mother, is a formidable woman, carved from the raw stuff of endurance. At 94, she has seen more life than most—outliving her parents, her husband, the bulk of her siblings, and even two of her four children, along with a grandson. There’s a certain grit etched in the lines of her face, a stubbornness born not of defiance but of necessity, the kind needed to weather nearly a century's worth of storms. Widowed in her thirties, she bore the burden of raising four teenagers alone, with a strength that defied the odds. It goes without saying that a person like her would carry a trove of tales, each one more compelling than the last. I find myself drawn to her stories, as they transport me to a world that seems almost unrecognisable in today’s society. It’s been fifty years now since the old house, the one I still call home, was built back in 1974. Back then, my grandmother lived across the street, renting a room with her children. She recalls, with a certain wistfulness, how my father and his sisters and brother watched, day by day, as the house took shape, each brick set in place. They called dibs on rooms that weren’t theirs yet, in a house that belonged to someone else, but in their hearts, it was already home. The dreams of moving into that house, once little more than fleeting fancies, took root in reality. In the years that followed, the house was bought, my grandmother took up her place within its walls, and everyone found themselves in the rooms their hearts had quietly longed for. As I step inside, the wall before me bears the stern gaze of an oil portrait of my great-grandfather, reminiscent of those old homes where the patriarch's likeness once presided above the mantelpiece. In that weathered house, beneath a roof that had witnessed the weight of seasons and time, all four of her children found their spouses and futures. The house swelled with life as their families grew, its rooms resonating with the cries of newborns and the laughter of children. And then, just as sure as dawn follows dusk, much of the next generation also got married beneath that same roof. Over the span of half a century, that house has been a quiet witness to no fewer than ten weddings, six births, and four passings. Yet it stands like a lighthouse upon some rocks and waves, guarding the enduring spirit of my grandmother’s resilient Kumaoni blood, holding within its embrace the last of her descendants. I was among those born within the walls of that old house, spending the first eighteen years of my days there. I remember plucking guavas from the tree in the backyard, chasing squirrels up the old mango tree, and playing catch in the garden with my cousins. Each year, it seemed the house gave way a little more—perhaps a piece of the roof would cave in, the garden swing would fall off its hinges, or the hand pump would run dry, necessitating its closure. Yet every return to that place stirs a torrent of nostalgia within me. Each crack in the wall holds a story of the past. In my generation, the meaning of a house seems to have slipped away, lost between the lines of ledgers and the cold calculations of worth. It is not just the price of brick and mortar we fail to grasp, but the soul of a home. When our families call us to “come home,” it carries a weight far beyond mere words. We, who were born in the quieter corners of India, often find ourselves drifting to the big cities in search of education, careers, and the promise of a better life. Our lives have become a restless journey, packing up our belongings and moving on before we’ve even unpacked them. We rent spaces where the walls remain strangers, never feeling the warmth of our touch, for we know we won’t linger long enough to make them our own. And yet, we are fortunate to have experienced the security and stability once afforded to us by our home—a house that once held us close, a house that still stands, should we ever choose to return. As I stand on the brink of buying a place to call my own, I recognize a truth about my generation: most of us will likely live in apartments, especially if we make our lives in the sprawling cities. The cost of owning a house has climbed beyond reach, an echo of the old dream now blurred by the haze of rising prices. It is the success of those who came before me that has provided the stability and shelter I’ve known. I dream of the day when I might return that gift, passing on to my children, and perhaps to their children, the same strength and security that was once bestowed upon me, if fortune permits me to follow in the footsteps of those who came before. ““Land is the only thing in the world that amounts to anything,” he shouted, his thick, short arms making wide gestures of indignation, “for ‘tis the only thing in this world that lasts, and don’t you be forgetting it! ‘Tis the only thing worth working for, worth fighting for–worth dying for.” - Gone With the Wind, Margaret Mitchell.