Wednesday, June 7, 2017
If the dull substance of my flesh were thought,
O'er sea and land I'd muse myself to thee;
To what District (or state) you've gone to plot,
Next steps, under your own vine and fig tree.
I'd come with many long-brewing questions:
'Bout the DNC, and whither dad jeans,
How to suppress the voter suppression,
Will Michelle keep sowing her mustard greens,
Why doesn't common sense gun control pass,
Isn't Paul Ryan the world's biggest jerk,
Why didn't you hand James Comey his ass,
And thank you, forty-four, for your calm work,
But also, sir, I would drop this knowledge:
I'm so done with that electoral college.
Speaking of plots and of rising despots,
The dank odor of your every decree;
Though it means nothing to you, sans-culottes
Are words which most richly relate to thee.
For your beastly behavior, boasts of walls,
For your farcical feigning of greatness,
And cronies who jaw confederate drawls,
I cling to hope for poetic justice,
As a famous bard hath once recounted,
Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall,
You won -- yea, sheltered by your accountant,
But gilded secrets may just end it all.
Until then, the fair sex wants you to know,
You'll never be cool like Justin Trudeau.