Deportation of immigrants

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El Chupacabra feeds off of goats, They rely on the blood from their throats. But soon all the goats will be gone  And they will have nothing to feed their spawn. They go out and search under the moonlight,
I remember the days when you were nine. Where rainbows cast a kaleidoscope line. Our homes were safe and borders clear, no longer the case, alas our fears. I would hold your hand and guide our way, down dusty roads past fields of hay.
I sit in class I listen as the teacher talks I read what the teacher talks I read         America the land of opportunities  I read
This Island is dead. It's taken its last breath In the form of the last wind Bringing unknown traces of other civilizations.   It's closed its eyes forever No longer seeing the outside world
Say nothing, Do not protest, let the bigotry cause no unrest. People laugh off the the pain, like the insults some sort of jest.   Say nothing,
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