“Guess Who’s Not Worried About ICE? (Spoiler: Americans Who Ain’t Hidin’ Meth or a Fake Visa)”
DEDICATION — To the Straight-Walkers and Shady Runners
For the Americans who lace up clean, flash ID like it’s another Tuesday—belt off, grin on, through the scanner like ghosts on break.
For the ones clutching purses stuffed with “just visiting” lies, hearts jittering like clowns at a lie detector.
For Gen X survivors who’ve sniffed out bullshit since MTV traded rebellion for reruns.
Comfort? That’s a lullaby for folks who think rules skip their name.
PROLOGUE — Airport Blues, ’90s Rewind
The terminal hums with anxiety and overpriced hope, a neon purgatory between freedom and paperwork.
People shuffle forward like penitents—belts unbuckled, shoes unlaced, dignity bagged with their toiletries.
Cinnabon sweetness mixes with body odor and fear, sprayed over everything like denial in a can.
TSA drones murmur scripts of order, while ICE agents drift through like ghosts in tactical black—quiet, unreadable, inevitable.
You glance around like maybe kindness lives here, buried under some red-white-and-blue sign.
It doesn’t. Systems don’t wink. They scan.
You think your story matters? It’s just barcodes and breath.
The line moves. You don’t.
INTERLUDE — The Whisper Before the Chant
Somewhere behind the x-ray hum, you hear it—
Feet tapping, a child’s singsong rhythm breaking the tension.
Not protest. Not prayer. Just the new American nursery rhyme—
the kind that teaches survival before spelling.
NURSERY RHYME — ICE Line Lullaby
Step-step, sneakers squeak,
who’s next in the airport freak?
Tag’s tucked in, papers true,
ICE walks by—don’t see you.
Spin-spin, little sin,
hide it deep beneath your grin.
Cards fake, lips dry,
pray your story learns to fly.
Click-click, scanner hums,
truth shows up, courage numbs.
Slide your belt, lift your hands,
the line don’t care for “foreign lands.”
Wave-wave, badge so blue,
they ain’t lookin’—yet—they do.
Eyes front, face straight,
karma don’t stamp second-rate.
Whisper low, don’t confess,
lies weigh more, truth costs less.
ICE Line’s long, patience thin,
you sweat once—then you’re in.
(soft refrain)
Step-step, hush now, stay,
good folks sleep, bad ones pray.
Gen X hums beneath the din—
Clean papers out, dark stories in.
POEM — The Shady Shit Theorem
Everybody’s the hero of their own illegal ballad.
You’re not “breaking the law,” you’re “chasing a dream.” That’s the anthem, right?
But ICE don’t clap for dreams, and scanners don’t hum in sympathy. They hum for data.
You flash a flag pin, quote a meme, call yourself “real American”—while carrying five pounds of fantasy in your carry-on.
They’ll take your word with a nod, a half-smile, and a quiet “step aside.”
Democrat or Deplorable—it don’t matter to a barcode.
Everyone bleeds the same shade in ultraviolet.
It’s funny, the way people blame systems built to catch everyone else.
“Not me,” they say. “I’m too harmless, too local, too right.”
But every con thinks they’re clever until the cuffs click in 4K clarity.
The truth isn’t cruel—it’s clinical.
Live clean, and you’ll fly through like smoke.
Play dirty, and you’ll sweat your soul right through your passport photo.
The game’s fair in the coldest, most American way:
No bias, just scanning. No mercy, just mirrors.
And when that mirror flashes green or red—remember this:
It never judged you. It just told the truth faster than you could lie.
EPILOGUE — The Wake-Up Call
One long beep too long, one glance too sharp.
Shoes on again but the chill lingers—like finding out your favorite childhood band makes mortgage ads now.
You walk out into the sunlight, blinking through that uneasy relief:
You made it. This time.
But there’s something about the line that sticks to your chest.
A reminder, quiet as static: life runs on rules written by people who stopped believing in luck.
Not because the world turned meaner—because it turned mechanical.
Comfort’s the ghost we keep chasing through the scanner light.
INTERLUDE — Hold That Breath, Don’t Wake the Dream
Somewhere in the distance, another line forms.
Mothers whisper goodnight over the hum of jet engines.
Children fall asleep to the beat of regulation—
Their lullabies now coded in legalese, their future tagged, scanned, and cleared for boarding.
LULLABY — Sleep Tight, Shady McFly
Hush now, close those lying eyes,
shadows drift where border flies.
Count your perks and pretty schemes,
dreaming rights you bought in dreams.
ICE won’t come—they only chase
those who cheat a lawful place.
So breathe in soft, exhale your spin,
truth stands taller than your sin.
Stars don’t blink for smug or sly,
night forgets your alibi.
Rules don’t bend for whispers deep,
so hum your lie—and go to sleep.
(whispered refrain)
Sleep tight, Shady McFly,
the line don’t lie, it just replies.
You thought the rules would pass you by—
but baby, even ghosts must fly.
© 2026 The Prince of Darkness all rights reserved.
“Legal Americans? Chill. Shady shit? Sweat. Simple as a REO Speedwagon riff.”