Cancel Culture, Black Lives Matter,
Me too movement, Gay rights too,
Social media so much chatter
Have a gripe, just join the queue.

Pro-choice stalwarts, pro-life hawks,
Farm to table, Save the earth,
A world of slogans, countless squawks
A new cause daily sees it's birth.

Sound bites matter, the Media gloats,
Politicians scramble to take the stage,
Armed with purpose and ready quotes.
Often glib and rarely sage.

Where is reason, quiet thought.
Before action and verbal storm,
Popularity not earned but bought,
Measured now by Twitter swarm.

And as to us the silent mass
Forging lives amidst this din,
As we wade through this morass
To crack a smile is no great sin.

An old moral of the sea
Is avoid that siren's song,
Look away and simply be,
Then far less may just go wrong.

Gideon with torches and trumpets routed nations
mightier and more numerous than his 300
Putin with the vanity of Trump and his believers
is now king of mighty USA without need for war

"If everyone around you is forced into the Bubble,
Then you don't need to wear a mask."
                                                           D. Trump

American citizens in “bread-lines” to get little boxes of food. How desperate do you have to be to join that line? The sad, generous, little boxes of nutrition. We are all human, we all need our next breath and our children’s next meal. We all need shelter.

It’s a carnival of pleasure to mock human need. Tell me my mistake.

Watch our President’s Daily Briefing. He doesn’t mention bread-lines. He chooses not to. How counterfeit is his competence. No “fire side chat”, no promise of hope. How mean is this fat, grubby, “rich” man who s*s on golden toilet seats and ignores starving Americans’ desperation.

The tyrant’s plea, as the collapse begins, is “I’m not responsible”. Tell me my mistake.

We have lost our immeasurable strength. We are become callous. We are robbed, of our better, more generous selves by narrow focus, by zero sum greed. Our collapse will be just, like verse set down in primitive times when the margin of error was clear and understood.

It’s a calm discrimination to choose carelessness. Tell me my mistake.

This unfolding viral nightmare is but one of the fires along the tree line. The encroaching environmental disaster, the loss of our political system’s integrity, the militarization of police racism.

Maybe China will do better - if I’m reading my score card correctly, it looks like they’re up next as the world’s great superpower.

My country, 'tis of thee,
Sweet land of tyranny,
Of thee I sing;
Land where my hackers live,
Land where my loyalty is,
Land where my bankers give
Let misrule ring!
My native country, flee,
To land of autocracy,
Thy name I love;
I love thy arrogance,
Thy sweet high-handedness;
Your subjugating dominance
Of thee I sing.
Let Russia swell the breeze,
And ring with Putany
Sweet brother's song;
Let lying tongues awake;
Let American freedoms take;
Let law and justice break,
Let Trump rule ring!
Allies like Moscow Mitch,
Have America in the ditch,
Let Fox News ring!
Republicanism is a b*h,
Our government for the rich,
My Lackey's be enriched
Of thee I bling!
Corruption's' God to me,
Author of tweetery,
To me thee sing.
Long may my brand be bright,
With dictator's impending night,
The fools have given me the right,
I'm  God your King!

The country's on fire
Buildings ablaze
A situation most dire
Filmed through the haze.

Protesters all shouting
Passions inflamed
Of their anger no doubting
For the victim now named.

They march with hands raised
Indignant and loud
Determined, unphased,
To pressure unbowed.

But the message is tainted
The moment hijacked
The vision now painted
Of stores all ransacked.

Looters in droves
Their arms filled with goods
From iPhones to clothes
Their faces in hoods

Frenzied they run
Opportunity knocks
Plate glass they shun
With hammers and rocks.

Men of no soul
These rats of the night
Not caring they stole
What's pure and what's right.

Sadness surrounds us
Few places to turn
So much to discuss
While our cities now burn.

Imagine there’s a painting
adorning the wall of some president’s master bedroom. It hangs
beneath a mirrored ceiling where his wife
(lucky her) gets to watch his pumping ****
wobble like a pale hairy jelly.

Let’s say it sits above a dozen nicotine silver wigs
on a perfect chesterfield dresser,
and maybe it gazes down, in lurid grey and gold:

a grinning Adolf ******
riding a merry go round of charging marble stallions,
one leather glove tightly gripping the reigns
the other waving at scores
of muscular blonde women
and heroic dead eyed men
with lantern jaws.

Let’s just say this now and get it out in the open
before it’s too late.