You never shut up.
You despised half of your nation.
You insulted your neighbors.
You believed the New York Times.
You whined.
You projected.
You hated.
You neurotically reacted to daily life.
You, and you alone, chose to revile.
You virtue-signaled your silly self into oblivion.
You put some SIGN on your suburban lawn.

Now you defend electoral fraud.
Go **** yourself.
We no longer listen to you.
Because you are dead.

One fact remains, though we're cast aside:
Orange Man's driving . . .  (one hell of a ride).

I sit before this bottle trapped in paralyzing fear
Remembering a prophecy once told to me in a previous year
An Oracle once said to me that upon my endeavors I'd find a Genie
To not be fooled and that I must think freely
That I'd be her master but really her servant
To proceed with caution and be vigilantly observant
That she'll try to trick me into falling in love
And under her magic I'd be blindly trapped of
That she'd look like the woman of my dreams far more beautiful than a model
But you can't marry a Genie even if you polish the bottle
It's been over a century since the last time she was active
From the bottle to which she's eternally held captive
That I wouldn't ask for my wishes to be made real
But instead with her I'd attempt to strike a deal
I tried to throw it away
But it found its way back to me
I tried to move away
But its like the bottle only followed me
Seems I have no other option but to fulfill this prophecy
With that lingering fear that she'll get the best of me

∅

anyone
with half a brain
(right OR left)
knew it would turn out
like this