The Podunker Hill

I see the ignorance of the podunker Hill,
By the Washita River, flowing through;
The small-brained lib’ral sitting as the dew;
His morbid eyes red from his lies so shrill.
His sparse, weak, feeble brain sits still.
The empty logic focused cryptically on the view
Of Old Glory waving: red, white and blue;
And this flag waving stirs him to a hateful thrill

So much hate dwells within this lesser mind
This lib’ral more content with hate than works
Through the pledge words and the hate it irks,
Not the words, but in the cloth of any kind.
When the hate like this burst forth with such shrill
then we can all see the podunker Hill