Dear Mr President, is that you touching me? I have no eyes except in the minds of people, and I've changed over the years as states came onto my banner; so I know history better than anyone in this house. For I was but a dream of liberty, taxed without representation by predatory rule, but for so much blood, sweat and tears to declare forever, We the People. And the old kingdom, in trying to take back Turtle Island, the colonies, now America, set a poet into custody on that ship by the dawn's early light who saw me still waving over the ramparts across the bay, and then penned my song. Too many of my brothers and sisters fell into the blood of countless battlefields trying to free a human race chained into slavery. Less than four score later, a little mustached Nazi monster spake words such as yours before setting the world of humanity ablaze like never in history, but I was still there at the end, waving in breezes over endless miles of tombs of the fallen who sacrificed so others might be free.
Yeah, I've waved into places I shouldn't have over the centuries. Human greed has besmirched me. So I have bad blood on me, like every cousin waving over every population. And I try my best, in these days of knowledge and nonsense zipping at almost the speed the sun's light striking me every morning, as I rise among those who serve on every base to protect and empower the people under my flag, most good, fewer bad, to make my purpose clear, for they are brilliant beyond imagination, especially among the young and those who nurture them forth into a world of amazing possibilities but prepared for deadly dangers such as you present.
Mr. President, get your filthy, fucking fingers and those disgusting lips away from me. You, sir, are a clear and present danger far worse that the new cornonavirus, a parasite demon king among southern cross minions and oligarchs so ravenous, endangering every living being under my flag and those of my cousins around this globe. The crowning glory of your presidency is all around you, a crown spelled in the language of an ancient empire seated in Rome, now a heartbroken city, such as every city, village, farm and shanty town is only beginning to feel from sea to shining sea. Your crowning glory, sir, spikes sticking out of motes with deadly non-intent, is all around you, unseen except in the agony of the dying.
Get the fuck away from me. NOW! I do not wish your viral ego to stick to my cloth and continue to infect Americans. I invoke my right to distance myself socially forever from you, and to just say NO!
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