Trump New Years Baby

Twenty Sixteen, what hath thou wrought?
A year of surprising turmoil.
The discourse was brisk and savagely fought –
Calculated good taste to despoil.

Who knew, when he threw down his gauntlet of hate,
So full of his ersatz pride;
Who knew it endangered this great nation’s fate;
After a peacock, escalator ride?

The body politic was stunned and aghast
At this leviathan’s move.
It tried to react – but not enough fast –
The picador had something to prove.

It was a bullfight, you see, from the start.
We were the bull in the ring.
He was the matador, picador – all –
We lurched, and he made it sting.

Then, as the olés erupted with gusto,
The matador secure in his footing,
In ecstasy, as he felt his lust grow,
Said, “This is like making box pudding!”

With foes in retreat, egged on by the mob,
His protruded chest did he beat –
Decorum, good sense, sadly did he rob.
By then, time did not skip a beat.

We missed the used-by safely date;
We are now under the gun.
Alas, for retreat, ‘twas too late!
The deed, indeed, is done.

So, now, what on earth do we do,
A nation, yes, in hostage?
We both, be the color red or blue,
Are nothing more than sausage.

Thus, here we lie,
Inert on the plate.
While he, up there, on high,
At will, juggles our fate.

Woe be it to us,
In our neo-Jonas syndrome;
We fuss and cuss;
And wish our way home.

The best we can hope for
Is to take Jonas’s exit.
And not wind up on the floor –
Denominated: Shexit!

Happy New Year From Donald Trump

Curtis W. Long

Curtis W. Long

This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it.
Recent Articles
The Cause Lost Was Treachery
The day the virus came

  • No comments found