Like a waveless ocean awaiting tsunami.
The sand tenses. Trees try to shuffle away.
Sea horses gallop. Crabs get friendly.
Big fish, little fish, work in harmony
to avoid induction, gills pumping.
The sky still looks the same, but closer.
From afar and still silent, forces gather.
The beach is too big to escape.
Embrace the moment at hand. Build a castle.
Bye, bye, this American lie.
Drove him down to KFC
because he wanted a thigh.
His good old boys
are keeping their powder dry.
This transition we could see people die.
This transition we could see people die.
Well, for four years he’s been overblown.
Now he’s drifted to a danger zone.
We could see tanks on the White House lawn.
He’s not nimble. He’s not quick.
But he holds the nuclear joy stick.
And any aides who’d stop him are now gone.
Yes, he’s got Bull Barr, vile Lindsey Gee,
and, of course Mitch Moscow, KGB.
They’ll play their cheating hands out to the end.
And though the Biden votes were real,
they’ll claim the count was a raw deal,
and turn to the Supreme Court, their last friend.
But it’s been ten days on the fence,
and, despite threats of violence,
the nation still will hold,
despite the lies turned gold.
Ignoring his loud hue and cry,
our democracy won’t die.
Already his great tantrum’s growing old.
When January makes us shiver,
he’ll have emptied his mad quiver.
Without his slings and arrows,
he’ll be moved out in wheelbarrows.
His whole team will be on the skids.
We’ll be finally rid of those damned kids.
And then we can sing,
Bye, bye, mister thumb-in-the-pie.
Hop your plane to Mar-a Lago
as we all wave goodbye.
Your whole four years
can be summed up as a lie.
In one more term we would probably die.
We will always see your shameful goodbye.
So, Joe be careful. Joe be slick.
Make us forget Trump, that prick.
Bring our good land back to grace.
Kamala will have your back.
Liz, Bern, Cory, your new pack.
Your mission, if accepted: saving face.
Today we learned of RINO’s and dead dogs at the polls.
Apparently all zombies weren’t removed from voter rolls.
A dog did vote beside me. He’d a coat of rusty red.
I saw him vote straight Dem but didn’t know that he was dead.
And what about that chicken who was behind me in line?
And those two cats in hoodies that I’m sure were quite feline.
And talk about the rotten eggs put inside voting baskets.
I got quite suspicious when they rolled in all the caskets.
Also saw one voter who looked just like a cyborg.
A few cold souls rolled in obviously straight out of the morgue.
We’ve got to stop this voting bloc of pets and the undead.
They had their choice to vote for Gore before.
The rest’s unsaid.
It’s been hinted that Joe Biden will tear down the southern wall,
and have it moved to 666 Fifth Ave.
One assumes the Kushner/Trump alliance won’t like that at all.
The wall’s the only souvenir they have.
But then it could be used to keep debt collectors away.
And pasted up with signs for twenty-four.
“I’ll put this back when I am re-elected,” it might say.
Meanwhile, he won’t be answering the door.
And if antifa members try to desecrate his wall,
and spray it with slogans like “Black Lives Matter,”
then Trump might post himself outside with Teddy’s great big stick,
and scream, “You be the ball. I’ll be the batter.”
Ivanka just might use the wall to brand her haute couture,
a clothing line for rapists and drug dealers.
And Jared might sell framed chunks, trying to work down his debt.
He’s already sent the Saudis several feelers.
DJ and Eric can use parts to set up their new scam,
a petting zoo for just endangered species.
“We won’t have to kill them if this works,’ said junior Don.
“We might even make tacos from their feces.”
So, say goodbye to your great fence, good people of the south.
Some day it may return if things go wrong.
If not, perhaps it will be purchased by the band Pink Floyd,
and resurrected just to play their song.
(“If you don’t eat yer meat, you can’t have any pudding.”)
There’ll be dogs back in the White House pretty soon.
They’ll replace the current resident baboon.
The return of shed pet hair will be easier to bear
than the current crypto locks of golden doom.
There’ll be barking, but within the canine way.
There’ll be no one left inside the House to spay.
And, in the coming setting, there will be lots of petting.
No longer will the place smell like hair spray.