Some days, I can’t even write a good rant. Poetry, (yes, even bad poetry ) is the only means of expression I can muster, as I view the incredible events unrolling before my very eyes.
Little Boy King
So long a loser
in all eyes
but his own
risen to peaks
from whence he rules
arrogant babyfists waving
in god-given inffalibility
bootstomping over
the Constitution
jackstiding past
the Rule of Law
spending lives
like loose change
red-faced rage
barely contained
when thwarted
quickly covered
smug certainty
purchased protections
ever near
confidence ever fed
by silent compliance
of those too fearful to see
or resist
and thus it came to pass
that the land of the free
became the playground royale
of a Little Boy King and his Court
