Pink bald skin shines through
A few plastered strands of hair.
That is just the back view, there.

O, this silly, psychotic old man
With the reigns of power
Held tightly in tiny wrinkled hands!

Make no mistake you need to quake
Because all this crap is very real,
Pretty much it’s a done deal.

Straight up it's a ******-land.
We’re living in a reality show
And in reality, we all know.

As he listens on a private call,
Step-by-step instructions from
"How To - The Manual," y'all.

"Say my name, say my name,"
I heard it on the radio,
Saw it in a commercial,
Screamed it
In the dark hours of my night
Where I screamed yours.

The sky is gray, today
Imprinted on its face
Marks like ancient text
That when read says
Behind this veil is hope

I have so many snapshots of life in my old brain.
Some truly amazing things reside there. I wish
I could hook up to a printer and press "print."
Sadly, when I die, they die.  So, it goes with all of us.

You broke my heart.
I searched for clover blooms
from which to weave chains
and crowns for the both of us.
But you with your urban sensibilities
Kept the lawn mowed too often.  You,
Hobby-like in your ankle-length socks
Bermuda tangoed, with your mower.
I eventually came under its blades.

You wash in the flood of the tears of mothers.
We lay at your feet the broken bodies of children
And wrap you in the very skin of so many victims.

As you paint your face and hands in their blood
To add a million scalps to your beastly belt
You should not be called "leader", for you are not.

In time you will ultimately fail and you will pay
For when love prevails, evil shrivels and dies
In the dense darkness that was created for others.

Then you will take your final "perp" walk.

Oh, Butterbean,
My bovine queen,

Tell me what you've seen
In yon field of grass and buds.

I heard your bell tinkling
As you were exploring

Seeking out the most tender
Of the luscious blades to wrap

That massive tongue around.
You are a grand lass,

I must say,
Grand among the cattle.