I need to check my stimuli. Nothing I’ve seen caught my eye,

His daily brief will get me seething, elevate my measured breathing.

How he rolls their questions under, facts and logic hacks asunder.

Cup of truth in seas of lies. How he rolls his white-rimmed eyes.

Stands as if he’s comatose, sneer to leer to just morose.

Questions when he has no answers, hands the mike off to his dancers.

They then tap around the stage, trying to subdue his rage.

Fake news is his battle cry, subtle as an old black eye.

Pointing like a brash dictator. You will get your answer later.

Doctor Fauci, under wraps, in his eyes, his theme song, “Taps.”

When he’s dressing down reporters, it’s like Psychos Without Borders.

Telling women they’re disgusting, while he’s salivating, lusting.

Presentations filled with lies. Master class in alibis.

He’s rewriting, day by day, what we see and others say.

As for deaths, he’ll up the score. Like to pass the Civil War.

He’ll claim he’s the president who saved the whole continent.

He’s found a new way to wealth. Betting on his country’s health.

Somewhere there’s a worldwide pool where he plays us for the fool.

Billions bet, the world asunder, on the death line, over/under.

Says that we will win this race. See us right now, in first place.