He's senile, incoherent,
Out of shape,
Out of date.
He tips forward
Cause he blows back wind,
And when he mugs
He waddles his chin.
He smiles and squints
Those beady swine eyes,
Above his lantern-like
Satanic grin.
And it's never about you,
When it's always about him.

Flies follow his brimstone smell,
Like sulphur leaked
From the gates of hell.
The vermin covet
His dependable fill
From a shart attack
While he's standing still.

He's a fake from the toe lifts,
That stop forward tipping;
As fake as orange highlights,
And his mental slippings,
He's glued a fake coif of  fluff,
And, if that's still not enough,
He spews lies,
Framed by his wee hands flailing,
His fetid breath exhaling,
Pouty lips wailing,
And his fat *** trailing
Far behind the Leader.

Whose face resembles a slapped cantaloupe?
Whose face could curdle cream?
Whose face is in a class of eejits all by itself?
Whose face spews out more **** than his ****?
Whose face resembles a boil in need of lancing?
Whose face would be left on shore cause the tide wouldn't take it out?
Whose face has a waddle waddling like Donald Duck?
Who?

Strange guests appear on Christmas Eve,
Entities, more real than seems;
And POTUS soon will get three visits,
From three well-known, transparent spirits,
That call as an unholy host.
Stormy, his first ghastly ghost,
Then Moscow Mitch to **** his boast;
But the ghost of Christmases to come,
Is New York's Vance; there's scary fun.

Our world is in a mess.
There is no denying.
I send money so people can help.
I love doing that.
There are wars.
People getting hurt on all sides of our polygon,
They're dying in all manner of ways.
I love the way people will fight for their convictions,
Fight till death if need be,
For FREEDOM, LIBERTY, HAPPINESS.
I love that.
I love people in detention for their beliefs,
Their faith, hope and determination.
I know what bog schools are, penal laws, Black and Tans.
(I also know about cages, Jim Crowe, and Proud Boys).
I love their tenacity. I love their lives. They matter.
I love their politics, their altruism; the really giving of oneself,
To serve one's nation. To truly love one's country.
For these reasons,
I love Sleepy Joe.
He gives so gracefully.
Sacrifices the remainder of his life for his country,
His people, His family.
I love how the Tyrant will collapse,
Feeling betrayed, mocked, humiliated, parodied,
Jeered at, ostracized for his megalomania.
A shower will never wash away the
Odor breathed among his consorts.
Brushing will not diminish the Trump taste, the rot in your mouth.
I love Aristotle's Poetics, The Wheel of Fortuna, The Great Chain of Being, and the cathartic effects of tragedy.
I Love Life.

"I'm the least racist person in the room,"
Presupposes
There are worse racists in the room.
Or,
I'm the only racist in the room.

To weaken him,
He sent the archangel Virus;
To muffle him,
He sent the St. Michael storms.

We love my mashed potatoes,
With butter on our plates;
But at the Trumpian table,
We'd eat from Donnie's pate.

If I was a bigot,
Or xenophobic,
Or prejudiced,
Or sexist,
Or racist,
Or even Evangelical,
I would argue
The Wrath of God
Has enveloped America,
Like a plague.
But I'm not, I'm a non-believer.

When the son-in-law
(who should remain nameless)
Is a clone
Of the father-in-law,
(whom should also remain nameless),
The son-in-law
Lies in an incestuous bed,
And the father-in-law
Gets a vicarious jump
On the wing
(the west one)