There is a psycho in a triangle.
From spike to spike he goes.
With a cable show at each angle,
The psycho’s eyes don’t close.
It’s a pity for the poor creature --
The polls have trapped him in.
Balanced thought is not his best feature –
Inartful, he did win.
No one knew he really is mental;
They all were sure he’d change.
The babble, basically, seemed gentle,
Seemed not apt to derange.
The triangle’s busy three corners
Entrap did this poor wretch.
They act, now, like poorly paid mourners:
A tear, then a kvetch.
One corner contains the enablers;
With him, they find no fault.
They are the inventive fablers,
The always self-right-alt.
Another sharp corner opposes,
With little balanced light.
They set about with chains and hoses
To bash down all that might.
The referees comprise the last notch –
Brave Goldilocks are they.
It’s somewhat like the game of hopscotch –
A jumpy kind of play.
And so, ensconced in hat three-cornered,
The psycho thus remains,
A real-life, Little Jackie Hornered –
Almost, but with less brains.
Stars and Stripes, in all its glory --
And even mud-splashed, too -
Never, in all its annals hoary,
Has seen this sad to-do.
Waiting for the main banner-bearer,
Idle, there in the rain,
It thinks of past days that were fairer –
Pipes and drums, and less pain.
The bearer, though, is trapped in triple
Cells of mental anguish.
His lips are locked upon the nipple –
A TV club sandwich.
Despite it all, hang on, Old Glory!
You’ve seen ‘em come and go.
Soon enough, you will tell the story:
How Sam sustained the blow.
The triangle will change it structure;
The flag won’t be forlorn’
The Shining Seas still will be azure –
And the psycho will be gone!
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