by Elke Zilla
It was never my intent to ever offend.
But if this train of thought is not allowed,
Feel free to unfriend, feel free to walk out.
But for now… Listen. When hate speaks loudly,
Can love afford to whisper?
There’s every indication that the train of moral shame
Has just left the station.
Feel the rumble, the weight of steel,
The whistle screams—this shit is real.
In the royal carriage, lined with gold,
They sit on thrones, the air ice-cold.
Call themselves kings, print their own laws,
Rewrite the past, ignore the flaws.
The car smells musky, thick with greed—
Profit trumps any earthly need.
“Hey, hey, what can we say? Life’s a bitch.
If you’re so smart, how come you ain’t rich?”
A fool, a muppet, a Putin puppet, a Citizen Kane,
A national disgrace on a runaway train.
But for now…
As the rails slope down to lower dimensions
Of deplorable intentions,
Let us not neglect the non-elect,
Elongated, ego-inflated DOGE
Whose fortune was paved on the Tesla road—
His passion runs deep
Like a fascist regime.
A stiff salute, a flag held tight,
Whispers of power bathed in white…
Sieg Heil.
When the whistle weeps without a sound,
This bigoted beast will hit the ground.
The ugly truth will be walking out.
But make no mistake,
This journey traced in iron tape
This moving prison of no escape
Is back on track,
Perfectly on time, purposely designed,
With the slick disguise of 1939.
The engine groans, the cold metal sighs,
The smoke swirls thick, choking the sky.
In the year 2025, without a doubt,
The will to survive will be walking out.
But for now…
What’s going on in Boxcar One?
“Friends and neighbors, everyone.”
ICE, ICE agents—
Inhumane, packed like freight,
Stamped “illegal” by a twist of fate.
Children torn from the homes they were born,
Steel and stone, sweat and bone,
Told this land is not their own.
Crossed the desert, braved the tide,
Only to be caged inside.
Barbed-wire fences, cells of sand,
Locked away by dangerous hands.
Some in limbo, lost in gray—
Buried alive in Guantánamo Bay.
“Sé fuerte, hope and faith,” he tells his child.
Remain and thrive in our domain.
Walls will fall, and chains will rust.
Borders crumble into dust.
Engraved in us: In God we trust.
They think this ride will wear us down,
Hijo, para nosotros, siempre es gracias a Dios.
When the whistle blows, we gather around
To bless the soil and kiss the ground.
In the arms of the angels, we’ll be walking out.
But for now… further down, the fears of a clown—
A legislate of hate that knows no bounds.
Packed in tight, they whisper their names,
Stay out of sight while we obliterate your rights:
“You don’t belong. You don’t exist.
That love is a sin, that truth a twist.”
We change the laws, erase the page,
Ban the fags, the flags, the drags,
Fuel the rage.
Deny the care, the space
For every vulnerable, transgender stage.
Force them back in a closet embrace.
Excuse me, King of Cruelty,
Near and far, it’s clear—
The only transition with your permission here
Is USA to USSR.
But my son is in this car. I see the pain,
The terror in eyes, the breaking heart, the stifled cries
For the state and fate of his tribe.
I have no answers, just a trembling rage.
Do you think your mindless might can erase the light,
Cage the truth, or silence the love that’s living you?
When the silence stops and the sidetracks drop
To reveal the innocence of love—out loud, unlimited.
Without a doubt,
The brave, the brawny, the bright,
The colors of Progress Pride
Will put some art in the heart of the acting crowd
And walking out.
And for one… along with his mom.
(Part One is done, but there are more cars to come.
I’m not through, this train is still running.
And it’s coming for you.)
