His mug was contorted into a sick evil grin.
His teleprompter was loaded with more insipid spin.
His eyes lost their color, turning into empty black holes.
One got the impression, he had sold his damned soul.
His gait became a shuffle, his destination unknown.
He looked like a Democrat jacka*s, afraid and alone.
He spoke unintelligible gibberish, Not realizing he did.
No one could understand, it was too far off the grid.
He loved to tell jokes with his sick twisted humor.
He only knew one or two, no joke, it's not a rumor.
He thought he was someone, like biggy king demonrat.
He'd stolen the where-with-all to be an elitist fat cat.
He'd been in politics forever, nigh on sixty long years.
That equals lies adfinitum, and oceans of fake tears.
He hates Donald Trump, Trump is a much better man.
By hook or by crook, any way that he possibly can.
He's bereft of high standards, preferring the path to Hell.
We keep hearing the fool saying that everything's swell.
Everything the fool touches turns to sh*t so how can it be.
None of us were born yesterday, we have eyes and we see.
These are the days of our discontent, the devils malaise.
If led by packs of baboons, we cannot sing their praise.
D.L. Crockett -- 5/19/24