Don't you admire his ringwork;
His footwork and speed?
Dance. Jab. Dance.
Did you see Rambonehead snap?
Glossy-eyed. Swollen and staggering
Like the bloated incumbent.
Jab. Dance. Jab.
The Dope's been roped.
The final count's on.
Obama only has to say a few words to stagger the Rambonehead.
He floats and stings.
As in all Partici-Poems,
You're invited to add your own.
Based on Fake News and False Hope,
There's nothing here to help you cope.
Covid-19 is China's Beta version.
The real pandemic is yet to come.
They now have a one year head start.
They've proved they can isolate and destroy
Without leaving their country.
The Sleeping Giant has opened its eyes.
It's the Real Rich people's way of getting Really Richer.
It's a deal maker.
It's all about Government Opportunity.
Remember Get Smart and the CONTROL Organization
For whom he worked.
If the shoe fits, GPS someone.
If we send young healthy Jimmy (who tested positive)
In to see all the Grandmas and Grandpas,
Think of the resources we'll free up.
Manipulate the markets.
Tell people Russia and the Saudis are friends.
But tell your family first.
Not only will it cure you, but it promotes
Natural skin color, whether black, white, brown or orange.
This is supported by the WH Medical Dream Team.
It's a miracle. Deus ex machina.
Will also give you blue eyes and blonde hair.
And please use a clean syringe when injecting disinfectant.
You're supposed to add your own conspiracy.
The White House is an inverse reflection
Of the matter/anti-matter chamber:
It's Not, The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.
No. It's, The needs of the one outweigh the needs of the many.
What matters matters.
Trekkies will get the full allusion.
We know them best by their first names,
Names ingrained on our brains;
Mouthed by millions being slain,
By the viral ego of the politically inane.
Adolph, Idi, Kim and Pol,
Francisco, Mao and Nicol.
Other names have come and gone,
None rise so high, as Despot Don.
Tens of thousands die prematurely,
The man's bereft of human morality.
Preoccupied with re-election,
He risks a healthy population:
The aged, sick and compromised,
Won't cast a vote when they die.
The word is out throughout New York:
He ain't famly, de foykin joyk.
Last line, Bronx accent. It sounds so much nicer.
The outcome is the same.
Handbaskets are in flames.
Others are to blame.
The USA needs a leader, and he's not it.
Oh, and Nero blamed the new religion, Christianity. The irony is, Trump thinks he is the new religion.
Stupid is as stupid does.
Tupid is as tupid sounds.
Upid is as upid sounds.
Pid is as pid sounds.
How do I loathe thee? There aren't enough ways.
I loathe your birth, your girth; the lack of mirth
My tired spirit can reach under your curse;
For loss of truth on your tenuous stay.
I loathe you for the depth of my lost days'
Most silent tears, for all of what they're worth.
I loathe thee as I love our damaged Earth.
I loathe you for your blathering self-praise.
I loathe deeply with the disdain I held
For my old habits, and my wayward sins.
I loathe you with the intense, hurtful pains
Of lost loves left on our bleak battlefields.
I loathe with a passion I freely choose,
As free choice allows. I loathe with my heart,
My thoughts, my whole being; and when you lose,
I'll loathe thee lovingly as you depart.
Tip of the cap and apology to Elizabeth Barret Browning.
I think I got the format for the sonnet right. The syllabic emphases may be a bit off, but the spirit of the sonnet is there.
Sonnet 45 because he's the 45th president.
… and the Sanhedrin cried out loudest,
The Republic got nailed.
Sins of the Senate.
Charles didn't heed the Puritans
He was God's appointed,
Anointed and empowered.
He tumbled from above,
Down through the law,
Lost his head.
Nicholas was placed in the basement crypt,
A cult-like condemnation;
So they stood him against the wall,
He listed to his Monk,
His reasoning debunked,
So they shot the anointed one
On his golden throne.
Benito was above the law,
High on meat hooks.
Could we dare to look?
If you were lucky,
If you were tied to a stake,
And the ******* ignited,
Someone dear would tie a bag
Of gunpowder around your neck.
Why let the crows pick out his eyes,
Make golden nests from his hair.
End the torture. Pull the life-line.
Sever the head from the body politic.
It is the righteous thing to do;
It is the civil thing to do
In pensive state.
Rise up from your ashes.
It is the kindest cut of all.
Love's cornerstone set
Forty-five years together
Dear wife of my youth
Our sons, their wives, our lives full
May love's embrace continue...
~ to the moon and back ~
7/14/2018 - Poetry form: Tanka (plus a celestial reference) - Copyright © Mark Toney | Year Posted 2018