In a Washinton basement, he laid his old head.

White as a cadaver, he looked close to dead.

His breathing was shallow. his sleep drug-induced.

His dreams full of children, some claimed he’d seduced.

Visions of pudding-pops, danced in his mind.

With pallets of formulac, he hoped no one would find.

His Toadies surrounded him, such cute little things.

He could see they were really, demons with wings.

They pushed an agenda, they claimed was his.

His life had devolved into, a long, ongoing quiz.

Over and over, he was tested, on what he would say.

What they wrote on his prompter, his lie of the day.

Did he know he was lying, That’s a good question.

The lies flowed from him easily, without hesitation.

His mind was no longer his, he was only a puppet.

Sometimes he felt like a Jim Henson Muppet.

What had become of him, where was his pride.

He felt a fiery hot hand had slipped up his backside.

He seemed to remember, Satan, was the one in control.

For his help, stealing an election, he’d sold his damned soul.

D.L. Crockett — 5/26/22