He thinks he sweeps the floor with his enemies.
He carries knives for the backs of his frenemies.
His once silver tongue is now forked and tarnished.
Everything he touches is left in squalor and carnage.
His dream for America, is a man-made disaster.
His shuffling gait takes him nowhere much faster.
His life has been a charade, of which he is the star.
He rides in the backseat of his own clown car.
He takes good people for granted, saying he cares.
With his head up his butt, he still loves sniffing hair.
His pressers are enlightening, his speech succinct.
His words cause discomfort, causing spincters to spinct.
He thinks he's the man of the hour, that's what he's told.
He doesn't realize the world hates him, his BS has grown old.
Only one more year until, hopefully he just goes away.
And the stench left on America, finally fades away.
D.L. Crockett -- 12/26/23