With his head up his ass, he moves blindly forward.
Our ship is sinking, he’s not moving shoreward.
He’s doubling down, on his plans for America’s doom.
He thinks that our children are put here to groom.
He denies what is obvious and lies through his choppers.
From his ass and his mouth, we hear too many whoppers.
It stinks either way, brings tears to our eyes.
He Will never admit to the common sense he denies.
He pushes pandemics, his weapons of choice.
They enable his power while they stifle our voice.
Call him incompetant and he will call you a racist.
Tell him to quit lying, next thing you know you’re a fascist.
It’s a practiced routine, a major part of his playbook.
The first card always played by a corruptocrat crook.
He would fall flat on his face if he wasn’t propped up.
He’d be less full of himself if he wasn’t stopped up.
He says he’s not joking but he’s funny as hell.
As fast as he shuffles, he can’t outshuffle his smell.
He believes he is popular, Adored by the masses.
When the people are mocking him wherever he passes.
He thinks folks call him Brandon to show their respect.
It’s a beloved nickname, in no way, disrespect.
He’s got everything backwards, he thinks it’s all good.
He’s still “Lunch Bucket Joe” he’s just misunderstood.
He says what he said, is not what he meant.
It’s not his fault we misconstrued his intent.
D.L. Crockett — 7/25/22