It was Marica first, but now
it's this ******* Cafe in Nambia.
No extradition nohow.
Stormy all night. They say I'm all wet.
I let out my belt. The wind ***** with my pelt.
Me, my africunmaricun, Sergei, Sean, Mickey D, Lil' Don
with small hands, we quaff cold covfefe
that primes my dotard pump as we
twitter of glory in the time of Maga and my Bigger Red Button
until Our Heritage spurs me to the bone.
A confederation of dreamers, forced to migrate
to this failing bistro for short sessions, having been
banished by snowflakes (cruel proof there's no warming) so
we sulk in a deep state where all is denied yet all is fake, until
I am jared back to the now by a mooch sycophanting,
"Genius! Dealmaker!" (I palm him a ruble.)
That Nambian ***** aids us. Nasty and ******, an apprentice loser
with crooked tongue she taunts me. Not nice!
"You wan more alago? You wanna roi cone?"
She should be locked up, but I know words too. I have the best words,
"I vana nuther cup - with ICE, you crone!"
Back in my hut, unstable, I shutdown
in fading torchlight, lapsing into executive time.
I dogwhistle, but a cat slithers in. I grab it. It pees.
Alternative *****, but OK by me.
I reclaimed a yuge hate wall (that had always stood by)
using bricks of suspicion, mortared with lies.
That I can tell you. Believe me, Ingrates!
The greatest show ever. So bigly am I.
But there arose a resistance, hunting a witch.
I hate dem all. So Sad. So Unfair!
Best school. Highest ratings. It was rigged by that *****!
(And yes, by the way, this is really my hair.)
They shoulda won, thus my havoc's begun. My deplorables remain
outFoxed, intolerant, shunning all unmaricun, preying
and praying you'll drop your guard yet again
for hate begets hate and poised bigots await
reruns of their dear leader's braying.
My first attempt at poetry since early grade school is a "Beat Generation" acid trip fantasy of a corrupt sociopath in exile who will learn the true meaning of "*******" when he lands in a penitentiary.