... a whimpering simp?
NO.
A simpering whimp then?
Nnno! Close though.
A stable...
     Absolutely not.
                                          ... genius
It'll come,
and when it does
it'll be like a blue bolt
from above;
the dark will give way,
the house on the hill will light up
like a prison escape.

Sword of Ishmael, robed in Assyria's mantle,
Consecrated of God, Prince of princes,
A Destroyer: the executioner of judgements.
A thorn driven deep into the heart of Jerusalem,
Tempting violent men, who pride in their strength,
as Excalibur and the Gordian Knot challenged
Arthur and Alexander.

Potus fallin'
Flotus stallin'
Scotus appalin'

Kim's cryin'
Vlad's lyin'
Donnie's dyin'

Joe's soarin'
Dems scorin'

God's in heaven,
All's right with the world
(Almost)

For witless wonder,
I wonder,
do its servants
chase
winkless
wrinkles
in time long-gone?
Is a thin piece
of cloth
so performative?
So political?
Or are you trailing
crescendoes of
long-tuneless
songs?

He was older than he felt
but his accomplishments
made him feel like he
was trailing behind.

Middle school said the
next step mattered.
High school said the
next step mattered.
College said your
degree would matter.
Here I am
making your drink.

Hey—did you hear?
I’m selling salvation
in a pamphlet.
Oh—is it clear?
I’m in cheap slacks
on your cheap
doorstep.  

People are dying older.
Politics keep getting bolder.
Can’t afford my prescription refill.
Sign me up for war. Use your
******* blinker. I’m only a season
behind.

He looked younger than
he was, all just because
he didn’t live life hard.
Nothing wrong with that—
some people say it’s lazy,
while eroding their bodies.

I thought that looks
would matter.
I thought wits
would matter.
That a career was just
a ladder
you scaled.
Here I am
managing pennies.
There you are
managing memories.
Hope I can afford a
vacation.

Hey—did you hear?
Your death won’t even be free.
Oh—is it clear?
You’re a tenant in your plot
until the landlord forgets.

People are getting older.
Politics are getting bolder.
Choosing insurance over groceries.
Sign me up for Hulu. Five dollars on
pump five. I’m only a paycheck behind.

It is right
It is right
'Only those
That stand under a tree
Know how ants bite!'

"Unless I saw things
Firsthand
Flaunting, I
Used not
Facts to understand!

In this regard
I often said off hand
'Concerning Covid-19
You could be off
Your guard
I do not agree
With a bizarre
Lockdown decree.'

Me if you ask
Why put not you
A face mask?
I will laugh
Behind your back.

While innumerable
Senior citizens die,
Well-nourished
Self-centered
Worried never I!
Investigative
Journalists I adored
To lampoon
'Cause I was born
In my mouth
With a silver spoon!.
'Yesterday I did note
The pandemic
Is screeching to a halt
No, no...
Excuses me I think
I have made a fault'
The angel of death
Me to hell's gate
Has brought!"
Though I lost in
WHO faith
It has wished me
To fast regain
My health!

520 000 is Unjust
520 000 + 1 is unjustly better.

Bitter, battered, bruised and spent
Throwing punches aimed to dent,
Bobbing, weaving, sighing loud,
Gladiators playing to the crowd.

Armed with words that cut like steel
Inflicting wounds that won't fast heal,
Nostrils flaring, bulging eyes,
Parrying blows with stifled sighs.

Indignation, slights of old,
Each man's purpose bitter, cold,
One sole aim, that fatal blow,
Boiling anger on full show.

As to us the silent horde
Stunned by this discordant chord,
We watch and wonder how we came
To such a place so sad and lame.

Is this all we now deserve
Screeching buzzards without verve,
Gone the poise, the weathered charm
Just two sluggers out to harm?

Mumbling, rambling, wizened and old
This sorry old man leaves me angry and cold.
How such a fool made it this far
Must be the luck of some weird Irish star.

Now I'm expected to play fair and smile,
But against this buffoon that really does rile
Each bone in my body from morning to night,
With his cocky demeanor and memory plight.

Protected and pampered by the media and stars,
He speaks from his basement and meets from parked cars,
Trading favors for votes, a pattern he's shown
And to pressure he’ll cave, for this he is known.

No wonder the Marxists all love him so much,
What better for President, one so out of touch,
The country in ruins but what will he care,
When all he can do is the 90 yards stare.

But all said and done I relish the chance
To prove once again how well I can dance;
And in the great words of my hero Ali,
I'll float like a butterfly and sting like a bee.