A Day in Minneapolis,

I walk into uncle sam’s “american” tavern,

but my favorite mix has changed.

the great american cocktail,

turned watered down juice—

where administration wants 100% fruit juice,

where bureaucracy enforces pure blend—

no mix where party demands purity,

no humanity where

he has been forgotten.

the executive says:

more ICE in my cocktail—better that way,

executive order 1/7 and 1/24

operation: Good and Pretti—

or drinks

nice and

ready.

the great american cocktail,

now

less flavorful,

the executive thinks ICE keeps it cold and pure forever,

but once it melts you’re left with the

inhumane;

murderous;

aftertaste.

the bureaucracy says:

don’t remove any ice cubes, let them do its job

I take one, I discard of it,

but when you remove one—you must remove them all;

even one cube begins to

water down

our mix,

but

one-

by-

one,

the ingredients are changed,

more cubes to cover up,

to water down.

while we’re told there is nothing wrong with our cocktail;

while people remain indifferent—

nothing more miss liberty,

than being on standby,

as her drink is spiked—

with hate,

with division,

with prejudice—

the great american melting pot or the american

bubbling

paradox.

next time I go to the tavern, I think I’ll cover my drink,

clearly mr. federal can’t stay out of it,

copyright © micah hill 2026