I am still stunned in disbelief. I have found that writing verse helps me. Wouldn’t call it poetry by any stretch, but but a primal YAWP!!!; more polite and less destructive than mass murder; less constructive than splitting wood for the fire. I wrote the following at 3 this morning just to calm down. If nobody reads it, fine; I wouldn’t expect any to like it. Just want to expose it briefly to the light of day, before it melts away.
The Trump of Doom
The Donald, it seems, will be crowned
Emperor of All America.
Will he move the capital back to New York City,
to live in that Gold House?
He is a role model for our children,
as Kelly Ayotte said,
but walked back under flack.
Let me rob a bank in Donald-face
and grope my neighbor's cat.
Time to revive that old time religion,
that scam I thought of back in college days,
but had not the brass to preach:
First Church of Christ Mercantile.
An ecumenical faith,
often sharing quarters with
the Temple of Mammon
and the NRA.
Its icon of worship, not a cross,
but three golden balls,
a pawn shop for the soul.
Its baptismal fount a fountain,
the coins, not three but millions,
raked out twice a day.
Donald will have his Inquisition:
his detractors chased with spite.
Hillary in chains;
the press in flight.
Climate ignored;
century storms,
on average two a year.
True Christians™ get their dominion
state by state,
no cake for gays;
the bloody coathanger
returns;
trafficked girls are temple whores,
a sacrament made official now.
(the churchmen get the boys.)
...
So it goes.