His drool's turned corrosive, just like his thoughts.
His circuits are misfiring, brain tied up in knots.
He panders to zombies, he promises brains.
He thrives on chicanery and hordes illgotten gains.
His smile is twisted, his grin a rictis of death.
Like a fish out of water, he gasps with each breath.
His visage is frightening, a harbinger of doom.
A rotted old corpse, coming out of the gloom.
His eyes are dark portals, into his dark soul.
His cup can't runneth over, it's never been full.
His feet have turned leaden, dragging him down.
He often wonders if swamp scum can drown.
He's afraid of the water, he fears coming clean.
His pants seat is shiny, a sickening sheen.
He says he's mishandled, his handlers don't care.
They claim he'd be better off, if he wasn't there.
He dreams of his legacy, that will never exist.
If he disappeared he would never be missed.
He doesn't know who he is, who he once was.
His modus-operandi, he does what he does.
The MSM loves him, is the message conveyed.
They're rolling in the aisles when he turns away.
He's told he's popular, he knows it's a joke.
 Even his honey is waiting, for his dumba*s to croak.
He pines for the past, the one he's forgotten.
The days when crime paid for old Joey Rotten.
His days are numbered but he isn't counting.
He's starting to dread, that final accounting.
He revels in lost memories of stolen glory.
No one gives a damn about his pilfered life story.
If he could cry real tears, no one would take pity.
No one gives a sh*t, that's the real nitty-gritty.
D.L. Crockett -- 9/11/23