When Americans have nothing else to fight with, we oppose our bodies to the oppressor. We've always been brave enough to take the beating, to take the bullet, to die.

Strikers linked arms and walked into the rifles and clubs of hired goons. They won.

Women bowed their heads beneath the policeman's nightstick for the right to vote, but never bent their spirits. They'd die first. They won.

We put flowers in gun barrels and went down under a hail of gunfire at Kent State, and we fought the cops with our hands at the Chicago Democratic Convention in 1968. We won.

Gay people, fed up at last, rioted in New York City after police raided a gay bar called The Stonewall Inn. The mob owned the bar, and the cops knew it. And the raids were for show, but finally it was enough, and these gay people opposed their bodies to the guns and the nightsticks. They won.

In the South, in the 1960s, men and women with tender skin and hard beliefs curled up on the ground as the police dogs bit them and fell bleeding as the clubs came down. They won.

In the beginning, we rioted, and threw tea overboard, destroying private property, and later we turned our guns on the British soldiers in defiance of all law. We were criminals. We won.

And what was the English king? He was a rich man, surrounded by other rich people, lords and ladies and crawling flatterers who spent their lives groveling before a throne.

Not us. Not Americans. By God, not us.

After enough injustice, we will disobey. If we are weaponless, we will walk into the guns, and the tear gas, and the clubs, and the dogs, and will not care if we die for justice. We will win.

Nearly half the voters in this country made a terrible mistake four years ago. They elected a king, and they crawl around his throne on their bellies, licking every one of his dirty words from the floor, growing more wormlike every day. They brandish rifles, some of them, and say they will make a revolution if their real estate developer king is not left to squat on his throne. They play soldier.

But you can't buy guts in a gun shop. We are the American people. We've beaten guns and cops and soldiers before, and we've done it with nothing in our hands, no weapons other than the ballot and our willingness to take the beating, to take the bullet, to die.

King George III was mentally deranged and privileged. Any British clergyman of any decency would tell you that God had set him on his throne, and that it was a sin not to respect the British flag, and British troops, and the British national anthem.

And Americans did not care. No one man was worth our worship, and we rioted, and we died and we won, and we set up a quarrelsome kind of an amateur government that bickered, and back-bit and elected backwoods farmers to office, and sometimes it seemed like it took forever to get anything done.

But by God, we had no king or queen.

President Donald Trump, crusted with vice and nearly incoherent with petulance and rage is building a monarchy out of tinsel and cardboard spray-painted gold.

Here. With us. In America, in the place where we will walk into bullets for freedom.

Rise up. One more time. They can't kill us all. Push him off his throne, and send him tumbling into history's gutter. The ballot is in your hands. Walk to the ballot box as if you were walking into a line of soldiers with rifles loaded and cocked. Because you are.

To find out more about Marc Munroe Dion, and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit www.creators.com. Dion's latest book, a good, family kind of book, is a collection of his best columns titled, "Devil's Elbow: Dancing in The Ashes of America." It is available in paperback from Amazon.com, and for Nook, Kindle, GooglePlay and iBooks.

Photo credit: brianfakhoury at Pixabay