"cynics" poems
Fulfill the dreams of yearning heart
Under the arch lights, bathed in glory
Reminiscing the path that you took
Forlorn and strewn with hurdles
At times an effortless glide ahead
Blended with mixed fortunes
Inching towards the destination
Trial of patience as going gets tough
Dreams will be fulfilled, after tribulations
Don’t stop dreaming just yet
Ignore the furtive glances of cynics
Dreams are to be nurtured and fulfilled
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 11:23 PM UTC
Was it an illusion?
Words that trigger an attraction
A reply that lays a connection
Was it an illusion?
A look that exposes a sensation
A whisper that defines an emotion
Was it an illusion?
A touch that pushes a button
A kiss that captures a moment
Is it an illusion?
To transform words into reality
To turn moments into eternity
It is an illusion
When words are lost in silence
When affection is met with fear
When All is subsumed in memories
Whilst memories may fade
The illusion remains
We hope for those moments again
Poets love the illusion
Though Cynics judge us weak
We shall silence their mocking speak
Thank goodness for poets
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 7:09 AM UTC
Let us be cynics together.
We can talk about how love
ruined the best of us,
how it could never last.
We can sit around the park
and laugh at the couples
holding hands.
Let us be cynics together.
And maybe,
just maybe,
we can fall in love.
Jan 5, 2016
Jan 5, 2016 at 1:21 AM UTC
A hymn to paired planethood: Venus hits Pluto
as death, in cold orbit, collides with biology
smashing to fragments: demonic astrology
(more a black hole than a love-star, it’s true though).
Cynical cure for Eve’s womanly grievance
Concupiscent consequence: lust’s bitter fruit –
ah the thought… changing Sin into mere inconvenience.
Margaret sang her seductive refrain
about weeding the garden and progress and light.
Her sisters should view her with scornful disdain
but instead have adopted her murderous rite.
With sang-froid she promoted her racist eugenics
(as if she had never herself been a fetus),
condemning her heirs to postmodern polemics
while nurturing ardent desires to defeat us.
Suppressing the lives that she flushed down the drain
she would liberate Death – and resistance was vain.
As a midwife to modern life (though on the “anti” side)
Old Matron Margie racked up quite a legacy
singing the praises of sanctioned infanticide
calling the shots for the coming sick century.
Planning, quite calmly, to “cleanse” certain races
her zeal was empowered by murderous graces.
She labored to bring us such pearls of subduction:
“dilation and curettage”, “women’s autonomy”
“viable fetus”, “procedure”, a “suction”
Hippocrates retches to hear the taxonomy;
words that turn Life into mere reproduction.
She enters the realms of the ****** and the motherless
roundly condemned by her feminine otherness.
Man’s first protection: the God-given womb
which no infant should have to regard as their tomb.
Dismembered dark cherubs, assembling, greet her
as demons (in scrubs) holding baby-parts meet her.
Long may she burn with the medical cynics
this mother of Moloch, this founder of clinics.
Convenience is king when abortion’s the Queen
and the profits swell big with each nubile teen…
yet the fruit of such carnage remains to be seen.
I send her this song as a funeral wreath
and a card inked in blood. You may read what is there:
“To the Matrix Supreme of our culture of death
from the souls of the infants you slew on the earth.
May your torment increase with the children you bear.”
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 9:09 PM UTC
How is life on lsd?
Well come on this trip with me.
Drugs are bad kids, they open your mind.
They allow you to reason, and see through the lies,
Losing reality, achieving duality,
The effects might be harsh, cause abnormalities.
Seeing your world and life differently,
Flowing through your brain so quick so swiftly.
When your eyes dilate, you no longer procrastinate
You get to pick between reality and your inner state.
Seeing that the small things are what matter,
Satisfying our thirst, for knowledge over matter.
Because on drugs you might enjoy walking,
You might enjoy smelling the grass or even talking
Expressing your mind, reasoning a thought,
And not being a cynics narcissist while you internally rot.
The experience on it impairs your mind,
And may leave you always behind
Behind with love, adventure, and discovery
Instead of hate, restrictions and agony.
But drugs are bad kids don’t take my advice,
the commoner lowlifes like us will someday pay the price.
The price of thinking differently, and enjoying life,
Walk this amazing world, with no need for strife.
Drugs impair your mind kids they do,
but what happens during them only chances what’s inside of you…
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 10:39 PM UTC
Every night was tortellini
when were roommates.
I complained about my chapped feet;
you bought me the wrong socks.
Black, mens, I clarified,
but you kept buying the women's.
Then one day you got it right,
only they were for you
because black is a warmer color than white,
and the socks of a man felt like cherubs.
I complained about my chapped feet,
you the heart of the world,
its cold silence.
But we remained "alright".
You bought new pajamas every night
and painted a beauty mark on your face
to match.
Years of x-marked places on our bodies
which no one saw because
we were cynics,
I the most.
No roses at our mat--we grew our own bushes,
ordered the ones with the extra thorns.
I charmed that snake,
you bit me on its behalf.
That I'd do such a thing
was shameful.
We were girlfriends in a can of salt,
tears in our eyes, mouths and ears.
We drank wine in bubble baths in our clothes
for three days straight,
or even four,
after that guy dumped you.
From then on
every night was tortellini,
La Dolce Vita, and--
and the freckle below your ear,
the horns growing from my forehead,
the way your falsies touched your cheeks,
late nights looking brighter
than they should,
than they normally would.
Pretending to be goddesses awaiting their gods--
while I awaited you.
Then you felt them too,
touched my head as though it were a fever.
I always knew you hated the suburbs,
and I did listen
when you complained about the gray rooftops
and the saturated green lawns--
"Give them a chance, please.
Then we'll get away--"
I begged, I relented--
The wine, finally, fermented.
You remember what I said next,
because after that you broke my heart.
I never doubted it was a bad idea
to say it
but I said it
and you left.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 8:15 PM UTC
Once upon a time, there was me:
A simpleton of no account,
A dunderhead by word of mouth,
An addle-pate, a cracking crock,
A crazy who deserved a lock.
Not pretty, brainy, or well-bred,
Bespectacled, a short redhead
With hands too small and far too pink
Who’d trip or fall as soon as think.
Not many prospects, they declared
With such conviction I was scared.
But the cast was short one role,
The one who’d make the halfwit whole . . .
Once upon a time, there was you:
A lord of state, of high esteem,
The answer to each maiden’s dream,
A strong man, raven-haired, and tall?
No, not this person, not at all.
You had glasses just like me,
And freckles where your skin should be.
Your clothes were rumpled, torn and tattered
Not as though that even mattered:
You walked on set and came to me
You got down on one gawky knee
You took my pink hand in your red
And, as you fixed your glasses, said:
“I love your hands, your height, your hair,
I love you up, down, everywhere.
And I hesitate to ask you this . . .
But could I maybe have a kiss?”
And, for once, my tactless lips
Did not resort to stumbling slips;
I gave you one, I gave you two,
I gave every kiss I had to you.
Once upon a time, there was us:
Two simpletons of no repute
Two dunderheads whose names were moot:
Prince Not-So-Charming and his *****
And much as cynics tried to drench
The flames of addle-pated glee
I found in you and you in me,
As much as they enjoyed pretending,
They could not harm our happy ending.
Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 1:28 AM UTC
Ebola Sars and *** sounds like a big deal to me
Isis recruits Australians, Russia bombs Ukrainians
Economic bubble crash is starting to give me a rash
Tumblr just gets really mad when you say a word they think is bad
Hyper fervent slactivism causing me a social schism
Picking up the pieces of a shattered governmental system
Cliches of a topic piled up into a rhyming pattern
Pundits pumping such hot air they might as well just move to Saturn
Tumblr just gets really mad when you say a word they think is bad
Post Modern kids all broke it down as something they could
deconstruct
Idealists will polish turds, while cynics just don't give a ****
Focus on your social status, eating healthy, getting hotter
Better drink my own **** cause we're quickly running out of water
Tumblr just gets really mad when you say a word they think is bad
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 6:38 PM UTC
I was sad for a long time,
12 long months ticking by,
not sad all the time of course,
but the hue of my first year was definitely
tinged blue
I fell in love, carelessly,
but I couldn't quite let him in,
amongst the tears and the other boy kisses;
he just wasn't welcome in my heart
my head had overruled it.
And they say to you,
when you least expect it, it will happen
and it did
someone else came and kissed me better,
patched me up and
made my kidneys shiver
And now, I'm not sad anymore,
I am still lost and misguided for sure
but I have all of these lovely feelings
hanging above me like a starry night
And I am riddled with cliche,
I want him and only him;
this is an ode to sadness,
for it treated me well;
it taught me to let people in,
whilst maintaining a cynics heart and
a fickle brain.
this is an ode to sadness,
I am just sorry to the boy I loved at the wrong time.
Nov 2, 2016
Nov 2, 2016 at 9:20 PM UTC
******* on the lozenge of illogical orbit, we whirl like intergalactic pinwheels.
Metamorphosed , we are Martians—caring not for mortal notions.
Celestial beings with curt dispositions,
Making men the cynics that they are.
For that which exists is doomed to be doubted.
So it seems our duet is the demise of devout humanity, my dear.
Us, in artless cotton blankets,
Inhaling the infectious essence of
Eros.
Dec 25, 2011
Dec 25, 2011 at 1:13 PM UTC
I often find that the people I know are polarized,
they range from,
positive to negative,
you have your optimists,
your idealists,
your cynics,
your nihilists,
and oddly enough,
everyone else.
Optimists believe in Hamilton's Principle,
but they tailor it to our own fabric,
they believe that for some unknown reason,
the current situation is the optimal one,
everything will be alright,
que sera sera,
carpe diem.
Idealists believe in truth,
they understand what is ideal,
and what is not,
they attempt to apply such principles to the observed world,
and more often than not,
they fail,
but that's alright,
they tried their best.
Cynics view the world as it is,
they observe and make rational judgement,
realism at its finest,
a time tested trait,
pragmatism has served them well.
Nihilists believe that life is without intrinsic meaning,
there is nothing that cannot be observed,
a craft of existentialist theory,
they assert that morality is a figment of mankind's imagination,
and for all we know,
they could be right.
And finally we have the remainder,
those of us we have no idea what we believe,
no path traced in the sand,
no trail blazed in the years prior,
and sometimes I think that perhaps this group is right,
there are limits to human understanding,
and so I ask,
how can we know,
oh,
how can we know?
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 6:30 AM UTC
~ You strange ****
You ****** ****
You‘re something else, you
You might not be well
The self-preaching
Was getting old
Even when it was new
They all knew
There is something
Wrong about your English
Something makes them wonder
If you‘re really all in there
When one said you were trash
You thought the cynics would
Make everything better
It never did last
~
Scary girl with big buns
On her shrunken head
Thinks you better quiet
And only listen instead
~
The dwarfs cursed you
To the ******* ground
You slime, you puke
They burn and bury
You to the very ground
Those kisses were curses
You stupid slime, you
The guardian never watched
Over you to stop the blackness
Which crept unto you
Now you‘re some tainted ****
And they all know you‘re untrue
And they drool acid on you
~
When the brain deters
From all that filth in your mind
You‘ll realize the bacteria
Will make you go blind
And as you sink in the water
You've once walked on
Your stupid ****** up fans
Will all be gone
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 10:43 PM UTC
Sitting in a run down bar
Toasting Christmas' once again
Making New Years Resolutions
That in eight days I'll amend
Watching Christmas Specials
On what happened this past year
All the while waiting
For another glass of beer
Commercials for electronic this
and battery powered that
Pill that **** your acne
Machines that **** your fat
Little plastic whatzit whos
That vibrate and make noise
Not one **** ad of one **** thing
For Christmas...girls and boys
Where did Christmas go to?
When did Christmas die?
When did Amazon take over?
Telling us just the things to buy
Where is Christmas spirit?
In a movie or a play?
At an office Christmas party?
It's all saved for Boxing Day
The beer arrives, we look about
The bar is filling fast
Most talking of the better days
The days of Christmas past
People on the tv set
On that **** show TMZ
Reality folks, who don't know real
At least not like you and me
I harken back to days of yore
When Christmas was so real
When there'd be fifteen aunts and uncles
At our house for a meal
When charity was normal
Cynics..few and far between
When Christmas trees dropped needles
And all had a slight lean
Where did Christmas go to?
When did Christmas die?
When did Amazon take over?
Telling us just the things to buy
Where is Christmas spirit?
In a movie or a play?
At an office Christmas party?
It's all saved for Boxing Day
It's getting on for closing time
It's time to get on home
Where, I am not sure of
It's nice...I'll think I'll roam
A bench, perhaps, inside the park
I think I'll be all right
I'll pick one near a walkway
By a nice and shiny light
Oh, most of us are homeless
We hit the missions for our meals
We drink some down at this old bar
We just like the way it feels
We spend Christmas Day together
Our extended family grows each year
But, before I go and find a bench
I think I'll throw back one last beer
Merry Christmas
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 7:55 PM UTC
Friends,
Think not of terror in the night
Of wayward wandering careless fright.
Think not of hatred in the morn,
Of owness lost and past left scorn.
Think not of guilts
Dead to the wind,
Think not of ills
You've beaten still.
Think not of the spectres of your mind,
Of days destroyed, of thought decline.
Think not of angels
Escort the dead.
Think not of challenges, haunt ahead.
Think not of blanket
Bleaching sorrow.
Think not of heartache soared tomorrow.
Think not of panic in the dark,
Of where your friends and foes reside,
Of what they say or what they mind,
Or whether they think you cruel or kind.
Think instead,
Of all you are.
Of where you've come from,
Crawled this far.
Think of your talents,
Of your shine,
Think of the world in terms of rhyme.
Think not of fear, of mindless dread, of panic ransacked
Quaking head.
Think all too clear of love itself.
Of simple life in raging health.
Never question what you are,
But freely count the fading scars.
Question malice, idle, stubborn, judging hearts,
Question tired cynics,
Mouthing barbs to better grow into themselves,
Question injustice, and condemn to swell
All those who'd dare
To make you shrink into a lesser, hardened shell.
Never wind your steps back over tread,
Already stepped.
Hold firm and fast
White knuckle raging burning grasp
Your fingers to the rail
And grimace menace
To all that failed
To break you.
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 6:01 PM UTC
hey God!
how ya doin' up there?
perhaps You are tired
and might use a chair?
to sit, relax and maybe think it over
you know, time flies and You are getting older...
You're Time itself
You are the Music and You are the Lyrics
I know: You are my inner self
I care not for stoics or for cynics
there are no sinners as there are no saints
we all but little misbehaving children
the Love bestowed on us from high above
is mirky Evil's deadly foe - the Lantern
I fear not what future holds
for all I know there is no future
if we go on like this - forlorn -
our selfish thoughts are Devil's fav'rite nurture
they said You don't exist
they said You're dead and buried
they kicked and crucified Your Son
their arrogance was their only merit
but You forgave 'em all -
knaves, foolish in their pride...
I thank You for the caring guidance
of those who do believe and those who don't
and if You're gone forever... well, good riddance
the image of my sword will haughty haters haunt
23.5.2012
Jun 17, 2012
Jun 17, 2012 at 8:16 AM UTC
Often the news gives me the blues
I really ought to choose
to simply refuse
I mean really, what will I lose
Schadenfreude?
no that isn't it
truth is stranger than fiction
more like a fascination with the surreal
or a blinded self-affliction with the scroungy real deal
Talking heads that speak for work
punctuate sentences with erratic head jerks
nobody normal talks that way, they ask rhetorical questions
when the answer's are known, they’re killing time
“rephrase the question, run the clock out
a commercial will spare us the embarrassment of doubt.”
Take’s a special person to face each new day
with zillions of prying eyes hanging on every word you say
the mendicant voyeurs of utter destruction’s charming new day
the slashing machete melt down of the abject speakers foray
"Oh say, can you see by the dawns early light"
What's become of your people and their obsession with fright
desensitization is paramount to achieve an abeyance of light
Frankenfoods, and "side affects" hideous monsters in the making
high resolution mayhem require victims for the taking
awaking half-dead like Dracula’s each dusk
they'll find a cure, there's another vaccine, there’s always dumb luck
maybe you won't be the sucker that makes that dreadful scene
bludgeon your mind with a another faker, a different fresh news team
fobbing your leery eyes you ponder “they can’t possibly all be the same!”
different day, different month, different year, same game
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 1:03 PM UTC
Fools may pine, and sots may swill,
Cynics gibe, and prophets rail,
Moralists may scourge and drill,
Preachers prose, and fainthearts quail.
Let them whine, or threat, or wail!
Till the touch of Circumstance
Down to darkness sink the scale,
Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.
What if skies be wan and chill?
What if winds be harsh and stale?
Presently the east will thrill,
And the sad and shrunken sail,
Bellying with a kindly gale,
Bear you sunwards, while your chance
Sends you back the hopeful hail:--
'Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.'
Idle shot or coming bill,
Hapless love or broken bail,
Gulp it (never chew your pill!),
And, if Burgundy should fail,
Try the humbler *** of ale!
Over all is heaven's expanse.
Gold's to find among the shale.
Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.
Dull Sir Joskin sleeps his fill,
Good Sir Galahad seeks the Grail,
Proud Sir Pertinax flaunts his frill,
Hard Sir AEger dints his mail;
And the while by hill and dale
Tristram's braveries gleam and glance,
And his blithe horn tells its tale:--
'Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.'
Araminta's grand and shrill,
Delia's passionate and frail,
Doris drives an earnest quill,
Athanasia takes the veil:
Wiser Phyllis o'er her pail,
At the heart of all romance
Reading, sings to Strephon's flail:--
'Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.'
Every Jack must have his Jill
(Even Johnson had his Thrale!):
Forward, couples--with a will!
This, the world, is not a jail.
Hear the music, sprat and whale!
Hands across, retire, advance!
Though the doomsman's on your trail,
Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.
Envoy
Boys and girls, at slug and snail
And their kindred look askance.
Pay your footing on the nail:
Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.
1.6k
Too many mediums.
The simplicity of conversation,
died today.
Died after the eighties,
because,
the neon lights,
and lines of coke,
wouldn't last forever.
You can't buy a cup of coffee.
Take your drink from the counter.
Move out of line.
There isn't a payphone inside.
You couldn't order a large.
It's a Starbucks.
Ask the homeless man in the bathroom,
shooting his dreams,
into his arm,
if you can borrow his iPhone,
to make a call.
And **** it all to hell,
if he asks you for change.
You only have a card.
Your piece of mind,
comes with a receipt.
But give him credit,
because he'll take an I.O.U.
Light your cigarette with the same hand,
holding the coffee.
Pass by people that do,
and people that do not.
Exhaling smoke,
some to which is blown,
up an *** or two.
Today is Tuesday,
or Friday,
and you have work,
or you don't,
but right now,
you are where you are.
At this moment,
there aren't any expectations,
but your own.
And when payphones,
become fewer,
and fewer,
You can take solace in knowing,
that calls will come,
less frequently.
But a business card is mandatory.
Aug 26, 2012
Aug 26, 2012 at 7:32 PM UTC
No crocus' will bloom at the bed of this hill
as Orcus attends the open chest, spilled
into a lake that drowns these broken oaths.
Along with the words pronounced the most
in pages of prose spoke in endeavor.
Like the perpetual lie, "I'll love you forever."
Jul 9, 2011
Jul 9, 2011 at 12:43 PM UTC
At his face it got harder to stare
But in his truth he would glower
Into this looking glass
That looks right back
At the years of age
That washed his face
Over that disgraced fortnight
and it’s dragging scrape
What was his counted,
that ruffling came natural
In a sentiment of the innate
and the inner mechanics of his climate
Co-Walkers, he thought viewed him a cynics ornate
From then on, became perpetually discounted
Though his face got harder to look at
by its contents,
Optics inflamed
and wrinkles elongated
to his whiskers growing skyward
a striking true spruce in essence to become
Nevertheless a bedraggled authentic
Just before a flooding pooled his lids
or the dawning of his tears
Until this vanish to enhance
These characters took on relevance
Apropos of what he saw looking back
The girl, his love, the spirit inside his drive
She could see all directions, like hands on a clock,
Every hour the dialed sun would tower
Giving her all his angles,
She could anticipate all of this,
including all opposites
She could see all that
To her,
His face was not hard to stare
Still chiseled but shaved,
like polished marble glare
Her love was true for years
Opposing claims would be intercepted when asked if during she dabbled in deception
Then immediately accepted their quiz, taking near comfort as she’s done for years placing her lips closer to his eyes,
she kissed his cheek and licked his tears
Nov 23, 2018
Nov 23, 2018 at 11:08 PM UTC
it is 2:23 am
the fan is set on high, despite the fact that the weather outside is -20°
fans are good for these sorts of things
white noise
drowning out the silence
the thoughts the beer brings
thoughts of fools in love in coffee shops
and cynics in tears in basement rooms
and once brave men in coffins
the dog chews on a rawhide bone
and I unbraid my hair
untangling each knot with trembling fingers
I undress slowly
removing each piece of clothing like a memory
I put on that shirt I bought for you
I crawl into bed
smearing plum lips and black eyes on an off-white pillowcase
and I think of once great loves of cynics
I think of coffins
I think of you in light blue
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 2:49 AM UTC
There it was -
Among lost flowers
And drained cups of espresso.
Among corrupt cabinets,
And torrid affairs.
Among the soldiers and the artists,
Among the philosophers,
The drag queens and the disasters,
And T.S. Eliot and his mermaids.
There, in a smoky haze
Of toasts and time,
I found meaning.
Friends, lovers, actors,
Huddled together one cold October,
Not for pay, not for fame.
Drawn together merely to drink our fill
On the intoxicating elixir of humble creation.
It was there,
In those chilly nights
Of backyard theatrics,
In the raw camaraderie
Of presenting art for art's sake,
That I found myself,
Whole and true.
So many plays and shows
I have oft participated in,
And many days have passed
Since that blissful October,
But the vivid memory forever remains
Of the perfect cast of players bound together
In the pure glee of organic imaginings
As we explored the dark against the light.
Did we know?
Did we comprehend, then,
The magnitude of beauty to be found
Within the ties that held us together?
Perhaps the rest never did quite feel the current
Of the electric wonder we evoked beneath the stars;
Not only in our karaoke-laden performance,
But in our offstage whisperings and antics -
Friendships forged in a campfire flame.
I cannot speak for the others,
But as for myself -
A girl now disillusioned
By Louisiana cynics
And toxic hometown politics -
I am nostalgic for those nights
That I spoke of Michelangelo.
Oct 22, 2010
Oct 22, 2010 at 9:43 AM UTC
It’s like passing a ******* kidney stone that doesn’t even exist, one that lingers and claws on your minds eye like a cyst upon creation
it’s a focus shift, a pool of indifference, a cry before an inner audience uninterested in the parchment, too jaded to focus and too faded to care
it’s an outside perspective on your own ******* process, “this guy’s mouthing off like he’s got something to say, who is this ******* and why should we care”
it’s when the ratio of happening to happenstance breaks the mold of your monotonous grind, when the words set to define the sounds of a generation fall into a digital pool of overpopulated subterfuge
It’s a deflated message and an idealist’s shift to anarchism, too ****** off at the cynics and too distraught to bother with a response
It’s like starting to **** off, giving yourself blue ***** and not calling yourself back for a second date
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 7:47 AM UTC
I can’t believe many want us
To starve, to sicken and die.
I can’t believe they hate dark skin
And I bet even they don’t know why.
I can’t believe they think it is fine
To tease friends who are different
And that they hate women and claim
What clearly is discrimination isn’t.
I refuse to believe your insistence
That you are a member of a church
That is fine with blocking our laws
And leaving the land in the lurch.
I don’t accept the standard cant
That all our young must go to war,
Then watch people act as if veteran’s aid
Is not part of what government is for.
It hurts to hear that you hate welfare
But gleefully grant it to the very rich
And buy aircraft and warfare equipment
As our highways fall into a ditch.
It is far beyond shameful to see
The number of our American cynics
Who would vote for a liar, and a thief
A draft dodger, a cheat and a bigot.
What has happened that we got stupid
Enough to not be able recognize
A narcissist that is in it for himself
Who is neither a statesman or wise?
How sad it has become for this land
The example of truth and wisdom
Has pitched its camp with an uncaring fool
And those who agree with him.
Nov 2, 2016
Nov 2, 2016 at 8:18 PM UTC