Four hundred thousand Covid dead.
And DT’s packing up instead.
He doesn’t give a fuck for suckers out of luck,
as long as he winds up, somehow, ahead.
Tomorrow he will fly his family south
to be his party’s claws, if not its mouth;
where he can yell, “You’re fired!” to elderly retired
in the sunny land where marks are routh.
He still won’t admit ‘Sleepy’ took the wheel.
In his trapped mind, election was a steal.
He is the rightful ruler, and nothing could be crueler
than claiming his landslide was not for real.
He’s got four years to shape himself anew,
to get back at those reds who turned him blue.
With Georgia on his mind, his rage will make him blind.
He’ll fume and gloom in failed dictator stew.
He’ll gather at his side remaining goons,
the kinds of folk who’d steal the White House spoons.
May all his future days be festooned with sting rays.
And may he not be seen for many moons.