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.
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.
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.
I won't come up short again,
Falling for clichés and praise,
Not now nor till the end of days.
I will not roll my weary eyes,
Shut ringing ears to truth-based lies;
Click my tongue or act surprised,
To the shenanigans of home-grown spies.
I will not throw up my hands,
But step close to the deathbed rant,
And hear the confessions
Of the Select's election;
The psalms of prophets
Who turned sour,
Who get ****** for their greed for power.
I am he for whom you search,
my manicure suits the crown.
I'm not worthy for such honour,
To be a prince or harlequin clown.
You'll pardon me,
If I misspoke,
But you missed the punchline:
I'm the joke.
The collective elective
Threw a bag of human waste
On the White House steps,
And stuck around to watch it burn
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.
Whistle while at work,
Donald is a ****;
Giuliani strokes their egos
All the way to court.
Adapted from an old rhyme about the Axis leaders during WWII
We've numbers in distress;
We've villains and scoundrels
In need of redress;
Choose any one of one thousand quests -
We're in desperate need of a Hero.
No call for a cape or cowl,
Hidden rings or magic swords;
We need action,
Not placating words -
From a righteous Hero.
Greece or Rome won't be the origin,
There may well be one in Oregon;
At this juncture we'll take anyone -
A home grown or welcome Hero.
We'll have truth without hyperbole,
Not disdain, but hearing dignity;
One to rise up, reach out, lift us
From the swamp of vanity.
We don't need Deus ex machina,
Or anything supernatural;
A woman or man,
Natural or choice,
A sister or brother,
To call us home;
To hear a voice say,
You're not alone.
The baboon savant
Will rear and taunt
From high on his hair-swept hill;
He snatches bananas from the unsuspecting,
His reach has no appeal.
He relishes the sound
Of his own voice,
Screeching into the wind;
He sticks his fingers in his ears,
And when he plops down
His ruby-red ****,
His thumb's nestled up his rear.