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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=417757" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Little Slice of America</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=417757" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">To be american, What does that really mean? I sit here in a Mcdonalds with the smell of sewage burning my nostrils making me nauseated as the stentch mixes with the smell of greasy burgers. I watch as a homeless man begs everyone who walks in, for change. I give him what I can spare. I watch as my fellow americans stuff their faces with processed fast food, all with tired faces. And on the T.V. there is talk about a revolutionary war rising in Syria. We sit here in the little busy Mcdonalds eating fat and sugar shaped in the form of what is passed as food while watching a war, people dead on the streets of a less fortunate country. We are exactly what other countries think of us even though we swear we are not. and I admit I am part of it... We are americans.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Jeremy+Rascon">Jeremy Rascon</a></strong></div>

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