Watch Donald Trump. Watch what he does.
Beware of what might ensue
If he's in the Oval Office again
And does what dictators do.

Viktor Orbán° came to his home--
A strong man through and through
Who has rejected democracy,
For that's what dictators do.

Orbán and Putin are mentors to Trump.
He loves their world view.
He doesn't care how they step on rights,
For that's what dictators do.

He swears that he'll go after opponents
If he is elected anew.
Trump wants loyalists only because
That's what dictators do.

His anti-migrant rhetoric
Has a frightening hue
As he dehumanizes others.
That's what dictators do.

Repeat a lie often enough
And people will think it's true.
Trump is a master at bending the truth.
That's what dictators do.

Figuratively, his nose has grown
At least a foot or two
From all the lies he's told so far.
That's what dictators do.

Republicans who don't obey him
Or line up in his queue
Are censured, for Trump has called them out.
That's what dictators do.

The former president now has
Indictments up the *****.
Our system of justice he says is unfair.
That's what dictators do.

Criticizing others is fine.
To Trump that's not taboo.
But criticize him and he'll get even.
That's what dictators do.

He starts with others, and then just watch:
He'll COME after me and you.
It's incumbent on all of us
To STOP what dictators do.

-by Bob B (3-11-24)

°The prime minister (and current autocrat) of Hungary

After President Biden gave
His annual state of the union address,
Alabama's Senator Britt
Had some people to try to impress.

There she sat in the kitchen where
She gave her corny rebuttal speech,
Or maybe we should say that THAT's
The place from which she chose to preach.

She wanted Christian nationalists
To have a reason to rejoice,
And so she used what people call
Her sappy, "fundie° baby voice."

People who watched were flabbergasted.
There were Republicans as well
Who listened in disbelief and asked
One another "What the hell?"

Blaming all the nation's struggles
On President Biden, she showed her fixation
With following Trump's playbook regarding
Inflaming fears about immigration.

We later discover that some of her comments
Were really nothing but nasty lies.
Perhaps that's par for the course when there's
Someone or something to demonize.

Not to bear false witness is
One of the Ten Commandments. Aha!
Doesn't that mean that Senator Britt
Basically broke a religious law?

Oh, well! Hypocrisy
Is fine, I guess, for those who believe
That THEIR path is the ONLY path
And there are millions of folks to deceive.

-by Bob B (3-10-24)

°from "fundamentalist"

Cleo is quite the regal cat.
Whenever strangers meet her
They must pay close attention to
The manner in which they greet her.

A "Hi, kitty, kitty!" just won't do;
That she won't allow.
She prefers, "Your majesty!"
Followed by a bow.

"Such a princess!" people say
On seeing her noble mien.
"I beg your pardon," Cleo thinks.
"Princess? No, it's QUEEN!"

"Where's my scepter? Where's my crown?"
She asks as she marches away
To sit on her throne--a padded chair--
And keep her subjects at bay.

If forced to move from her comfy spot
She makes her displeasure known
With angry looks and a meow expressed
In a very undignified tone.

"There's no justice in this base world
If subjects can treat you so,"
Cleo thinks as she leaves the room
With her pride taking a blow.

She finds a safe, secluded room
That isn't filled with noise
And waits for her evening banquet when she
Can surely regain her poise.

Her subjects know that her taste is refined;
Her needs must be addressed.
Food that's fit for a queen must do--
In other words, the best.

If the quality suffers, Cleo
Will turn up her nose, refusing
To eat another bite and thinks,
"I DON’T find this amusing!"

When people address her as Cleo, she wonders,
"Why don't people see
That Cleopatra is really what
MY name ought to be?

"But, alas, I must remember
That humans are all substandard.
They think they control the world,
And WE'RE the ones who are slandered."

At nighttime Cleo will seek a place
Where she will be undisturbed.
Everyone knows to leave her alone,
Or she will be quite perturbed.

She dreams of sitting alone on a chaise
Pulled by a team of mice
And then of eating her favorite meal:
Anchovies on ice.

-by Bob B (3-6-24)

I'm totally baffled how anyone
Can be so heartless and inhumane
To make dehumanizing migrants
The focus of his election campaign.

But Donald Trump is doing that now.
With a complete lack of restraint
He spews his venom. He doesn't care
How many minds he's able to taint.

Insinuating that migrants come
From mental institutions and jails
And prisons and even "insane asylums,"
He's an obnoxious teller of tales.

Tying them to a cannibalistic
Killer named Hannibal Lecter? For shame!
And Trump's supporters who think it's funny
To vilify migrants share the blame.

According to Trump, the languages
That many migrants bring to this nation
Sound as though they come from Mars.
More attempts at stigmatization.

Trump also claims that migrants
Poison the blood of our country. Scary:
****** felt the very same way!
People everywhere ought to be wary.

-by Bob B (3-5-24)

Frankie, the devil-cat, was always
The infamous focus of blame.
Folks said Lucifer would have been
A more appropriate name.

Always in trouble he was! You couldn't
Find a more wicked cat.
If you can name one more evil than Frankie,
I will eat my hat.

Sometimes he would want your attention.
Bah! Attention indeed.
If you pet him, he'd bite your arm
And scratch it and make it bleed.

You couldn't walk across the floor
Barefoot, for if you tried,
Frankie would attack your foot
And bite it until you cried.

He had a strange design on his forehead
Which frightened the local priest.
"Beware!" the priest told Frankie's owners.
"The cat has the mark of the beast."

You might wake up from a peaceful sleep
In the darkness of the night.
Two yellow eyes would be staring at you,
And make you jump up in fright.

"****, **** cat!" you'd yell at Frankie,
And he would yowl and hiss.
When you got up in the morning, you'd sense
That something was amiss.

Your favorite knick-knack would be lying
In pieces on the floor,
And Frankie would stay hidden until
You were no longer sore.

When he was hungry, you wouldn't have
A single moment of peace
Until you filled his bowl with food.
THEN the racket would cease.

When Frankie's owners would leave the house,
It was as though he would boast
That now he could use their luxury couch
As his favorite scratching post.

They never caught him in the act.
A scary thing happened when
A guest who said Frankie should be declawed
Was never heard from again.

Frankie would sit by the window and wait
For other cats to come near,
Then he would scream so loudly that he
Would fill them all with fear.

One day out of meanness Frankie
Started to chew on a wire.
Zap! He was electrocuted.
What a way to expire!

The owners say he's in kitty heaven,
But people who knew him well
Roll their eyes and under their breath
Say, "More like kitty hell."

"Frankie, aka Lucifer:
The meanest cat around!"
Should be Frankie's epitaph
Now that he's underground.

-by Bob B (3-2-24)

Republicans, please stay out
Of women's uteruses, okay?
What EACH one does with her ******
Is something in which you have no say.

Another thing: While you're at it,
Please leave women's eggs alone.
Why turn people's bodies into
A stupid political combat zone?

Stay OUT of our bedrooms, and stop making
Our intimacy an issue for you.
It's as though you are unable
To find something better to do.

There are many important matters
That should be addressed. Oh, but no!
Instead, you are hung up on
What to do with an embryo.

Instead of obsessing about such things
As women's embryos and eggs,
Worry about yourselves and what
Happens between YOUR OWN legs!

-by Bob B (2-24-24)

Sam was known as the Buddha-cat,
Mainly because of the way that he sat.
His feline posture was fascinating:
He always appeared to be meditating.
Quiet and still, he'd sit there for hours
As though he possessed remarkable powers.
People would say that he gave the impression
Of being in the midst of a calm zazen session.
Never upset or angry or frightened,
He made all who knew him think he was enlightened.

"But tell us: why 'Sam'?" people would query
So often that both of Sam's owners grew weary.
"It's short for Samantabhadra," they'd say,
"Who's just like a Buddhist saint in a way."
"Yes," Sam would think, "That's who I am.
But, everyone, PLEASE, just call me 'Sam.'"
Then Sam would continue his deep meditation,
Sometimes counting each long exhalation.
And when he was finished, he'd patiently wait
To see if a treat might appear on his plate.

He'd stare through the window pane when it was raining.
To him it was one type of mindfulness training.
He never would chase after insects or mice,
And if one ran by, he wouldn't look twice.
He was content just to take life with ease.
One thing that he couldn't stand, though, was fleas!
But he wouldn't **** them, for his point of view
Was clearly: that's what his owners should do.
He knew that life had both good times and bad,
And since life was so, he didn't get mad.

Sam was not a strict vegetarian.
His rules for dining were more nonsectarian.
He'd chant when you gently would stroke his soft fur,
Though folks said it sounded more like a purr.
He was a true inspiration to many.
Did he have enemies? No, not any.
When visitors came, Sam wouldn't hide.
Of all cats, he was the most dignified.
Sam felt that egos were dangerous, so
Everyone has to learn how to let go.

As Sam grew older, he slept day and night,
And fur on his face began to turn white.
He ate much less food--not a whole plateful,
But he continued to always be grateful.
He still meditated, although bit by bit,
He felt it was better to lie than to sit.
One sad morning Sam's owners awoke
To find that old Sam had died of a stroke.
For Sam there would be no more mañana,
For he had entered parinirvana.

-by Bob B (2-21-24)