He has a face Brancusi might have loved,
Featureless, abstract, devoid of feeling
Or rather the feeling is turned inward
Where his adoration of himself
Won’t scare small kids who run past him in the mall.
He built his career on simple bigotry
And believes in unfettered uniformity:
Same race, same indulgence in self-love.
Freedom means taking no responsibility.
Anything you find wrong, just blame the libs.
Life is easy when you abhor difference,
When you’re the pinnacle of God’s creation
And free to harm the vulnerable or weak,
Anyone who might need a helping hand.
America, his idol, feeds on hate.
He has pledged to summon the country back
To its founding values: you know the ones,
Slavery, genocide and the cult of greed.
His recipe for greatness and self-deception:
We hurt others in order to be free.
So, pity his antipathy to good.
He wanders the endless desert of himself
Searching for scapegoats he can terrorize.
It’s hard to be so small-minded, so crude,
So self-deported from humanity.
