Visit me with small curses and mediocrity in brown paper wrappers.

Write a little war dialler to call me at odd hours and sing Burt Bacharach/Hal David songs through a voice emulator.

Make me a necklace of the gallstones you passed while screaming my name as though you were speaking phonetic Japanese.

For this is the natural truth: We hard races are possessing of your insanely mixed-up American "soul."