We got control of da Gubba-mint, Wuss…
To get anyting ya gotta go tru us.
Don Don Trumpatini is now in charge,
And only he can say what tings is large.
Da judges is all appointed by da Don.
So what’s legal is up ta him.
Don Don Trumpatini, I mean,
Can kill ya on any ol’ whim.
If youse sez he can’t do jest any old ting,
And get away wit it under the law,
Then ol’ Capo Bill Barr will bring on de dogs,
And dey will be eating ya raw.
And don’t tink of not payin’ yer taxes,
Like all of da rich people do,
Cuz they has da money fer axes,
And can chop up especially you.
“De Dems tink dat dey can remove me,” says Don.
“Jes cuz I’ve committed some crimes.
“But as Prexy, I’ve made de crimes legal.
“So, Stoopid, youse get wit da times.”
And Moscow Mitch has his big ol’ back-side,
And Kanye is in his dark corner.
So dat leaves yas with no place to hide.
Cuz Hells’ gettin’ whole lots o’ warmer.
A Frosty Full Moon in a Pink Dawn Sky
Under the Full Moon
The air is cold in the age of old.
We’re no longer brave, in the moonlight wave.
Day has ended, night impended,
And darkest dawn looms for the faun.
We cannot wake with a sudden shake.
Our sacred lore responds no more.
Silence abounds on the frosty ground.
And the final score has left us poor.
A more reasonable paragraph;
I am not, at this writing, feeling very spry anymore. I substituted for an ESL teacher in Irving yesterday. I enjoyed it. But the frosty cold weather took its toll on me, as did the misbehavior of clownish 11th graders. I am left exhausted, and thoroughly convinced that huge high school classes averaging thirty kids in them are not something I am well enough to deal with anymore. I probably need to decide against taking any future high school sub jobs. They make me deathly tired and inspire creepy poetry about mortality in me. Anyway, it caused me to do some picture-making, and some silly poetical complaining.
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