He’s just a phase in history, but when will this phase end? The whole world’s breath is being held. When will he round the bend? As he jogs on in his next race, we wish that it were ended. Surely as he gains in girth, he must be getting winded! Yet our domestic maniac goes on planning his crazies. The world will not be sane again ’til he’s pushing up daisies!
Bored with all his yesterdays, needing a new tomorrow, grown used to fickle intimacies, much to all our sorrow he stood upon a precipice where the whole world looked back and declared himself the ruler of the whole damn pack. That anybody listened is a sort of modern miracle. He wasn’t very smart and he surely was not lyrical. Though he understood but little, what he knew just seemed to work. One can capture much attention by being a dumb jerk. He pulled the haters to him—the fearful and the jaded. All his moneyed cronies supported him, elated. He’d pull apart the world we knew and put it back again, but I fear that what few plans he had turned out to be in vain. For when he’d knocked everything down, he knew not what to do except to blame the mess he’d made on everyone he knew. The whole world knows that he’s a knave, his mind and soul both dim. The thing that is distressing is those who supported him.
We are grappling with our friendship over difference of opinions. My beliefs are liberal. He’s one of Donald’s minions. He won’t put up with teasing. I can’t bear his iron will. Of faux patriotic slogans, I fear I’ve had my fill. How can it be that all those years I thought that he had heart, he was harboring this meanness? When did it get its start?
This virus in our populace that masks as patriotism spreads misinformation, creating such a schism that no bridge can be long enough to bring us all together. The strength of our convictions seems to hold us at short tether.
When will come the end of it, and if that end should come, what will end this great discordance and restore the hum of democratic harmony? Are voices so distorted that we cannot reclaim the friends with whom we once consorted? When I walk the streets where we once walked, my former friend and I, he crosses to the other side if he sees me walk by. When change comes, certain evils must come to an end, but I don’t think it will mend the hearts of me and my old friend.
He’s up there on the platform acting crass and disagreeable. That he will bring the whole world down around him is foreseeable. Every single day I hope and pray for his quiescence, but, alas, refraining from brash speech is not his essence. He opens mouth and words fall out—disjointed, vague and dense. He’d make a great orator if only he made sense. Good that his mother cannot see the travesty she bore— narcissistic, senseless, and rotten to the core. His attempts at humor only render him more silly. His stench sickening and cloying—like an Easter lily. He’s like a wild animal: vicious, cunning, feral. What more can he do to put our whole wide world in peril? No good can be said of him. He’s rotten through and through. Daily, the world waits for him to drop the other shoe.