With it’s news of airborne COVID spread,
Horton knows he’s notching up more dead.
“A person’s a person no matter how small,”
but estimates say he can’t kill them all.
The WHO was not perfect, we all have our flaws.
But that’s not allowed in the quirk of his laws.
It’s all been a hoax which the WHO perpetrated,
said Horton to those who he secretly hated.
A death count’s a death count, but let it be small.
He really sees no use for numbers at all.
He’s putting out a bounty on the bounty story leaker.
He’ll fill him up with Chlorox, pour it down him by the beaker.
He hasn’t said a word to Putin, playing Don the Meeker.
But his base is eroding, maybe even mister speaker.
I dream the day Pelosi will just shred him by her laugh,
when Shifty Schiff steps up to cut the big red tie in half.
And how about when Chuckles Schumer steps up to the mike,
screams, “Who’s hungry?”, unveils T’s cheese head upon a pike.
Ennio Morricone’s dead, a great blow to his fandom.
“The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly,” should be our current anthem.
Columbus fell in Baltimore, a year after Showalter.
When there’s no Trumpet in the news, these poems start to falter.
We can, of course condemn his constant railings of deceit,
his lumping in with thugs and mugs protesters in the street.
And damn his lying lying lies and flaunting of the law.
His reinterpretation of everything we just saw.
His white flag to the virus, sentencing good souls to death.
His calculated threats to our long freedom’s every breath.
Yes, our spaghetti western’s winding down in tragic fashion,
playing now out in your streets: see fire, guns and smashin’.
The police are not your friends and your friends aren’t who they were.
Entire lives lived in high contrast now are just a blur.
Sometimes words can take two strikes, as if it doesn’t matter.
But it’s the bottom of the ninth. We need a better batter.
This is a hoax.
There’s no blood on my hands.
This red you see…from the Red Sea sands.
I tried to part it but it turned too antsy.
That bastard Moses must have used something really fancy.
For my next miracle, I’ll give my best friends millions,
while mailing out free postage stamps to poor folks by the trillions.
No one has done as much for those people as me.
Amongst the poor I’m second to their great god Wayne Guthrie.
I’ve heard good things about him; it seems like he was fun.
But I’d like the cops to beat the shit out of his son,
like God did to Jeezy, Weezy and those breezy cats,
smote ’em with a thousand stones and several baseball bats.
Anyway, these bloody hands, a hoax flown by the libs.
When I get through with them, they’ll be in pampers and pink bibs.
It’s not that I hate Democrats or hope they will be killed.
Though there’s a few I’d like to see their bodies diced and milled.
It’s just with all their lying and their spying and their tricks,
I can’t have fun with anyone, gangsters, Barr or chicks.
I’d really like to stay and chat, but have to go, because,
I’m flying to the badlands to break all the COVID laws.
Happy fourth to all our fine soldiers, living or dead.
Apologize to those who had a price put on their head.
We can’t blame the doctor if he needs a long vacation.
He’s been dealing months now with a very stupid nation.
Kids can’t stay indoors now, though that’s all some ever did.
Had to wait for PPE until the proper bid.
And, until this week, we lacked consensus on the mask.
That and social distancing fell to “Don’t tell. Don’t ask.”
The king just will not grace his face with sensible protection.
Throughout this pandemic, he’s been our second infection.
Mike Pence, too, kept us in suspense with his white christian stance.
His whole affect is quite suspect; he might be in a trance.
And dealing with spokesmodel Kayleigh has to be a strain.
She said she’d never do it, but there’s lying on her brain.
And so, Doc, if you want to get away, perhaps go hiking,
there’re many countries where this virus is not spiking.
My rhyming steam roller sometimes hits a boulder
and topples down into a gulch.
With wheel to the shoulder, I sit and grow older.
Sometimes brain fodder turns to mulch.
An idea will goad, get me back on the road,
get my eyes on the unbroken line.
I can drive fifty-five while my thoughts come alive,
and it’s those times I really feel fine.
But there’s other times, though, where I do call a tow,
unable to rise from the mire.
Those times, I feel mean. I could drink gasoline,
but in past it has failed to inspire.
Recocking the brain is so often a strain that at times
it feels better off empty.
A night off with beer or some holiday cheer
can oftentimes be pretty tempty.
Then comes the steam roller, all puffing out smoke,
and the frontal lobe suddenly fills.
And out comes a cloud of rhyme, prose and bad jokes,
enough to give thinking men chills.