Her pantsuit fit snugly, like a sack for potatoes.
Her perfume was annoying, freshly applied with a hose.
Her hair looked so lovely, bieng heavily dyed.
Her skin tone was exquisite, like Dracula's bride.
 Her facial features looked taut, like a freshly made bed.
All that old sagging skin pulled over her head.
Her smile was fetching, her flunkies enamored.
Bill stared at her blankly, looking totally hammered.
Chelsea sat next to her, Hillary was chock full of pride.
A female Picture of Dorian Gray, sitting side by side.
Their pantsuits were matching, from Abercrombies.
Their fans were swooning, like braindead zombies.
Cameras started rolling, the softballs were lobbed.
The lies were delivered, the bobble-heads bobbed.
The same old malarky, the same can of dead worms.
Is she out to help democrats lose the midterms.
Will she announce her campaign, is that her big plan.
Does she have bats in her belfry, sick ones from Wuhan.
No one was watching, but folks from the fake news.
They partied afterwards like snockered old ghouls.
Hillary had convinced herself, she'd win this time.
No one told her different, shouldn't that be a crime.
That night she slept peacefully, in her preferred single bed.
With pipedreams of the Whitehouse filling her old plastic head.
D.L. Crockett -- 9/30/22