Chronic Trump Fatigue Syndrome

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 Chronic Trump Fatigue Syndrome

“To argue with a man who has renounced reason, and 

whom has a contempt for humanity, is like

administering medicine to the dead .”--Thomas Paine.

I just heard a clap of thunder

that sounded like a 747 hitting

one of the twin towers, like my righteous anger

shooting from my fingertips

and cracking open the sky, followed by a deluge

pounding on our deck cover and garage roof

relentlessly, overpowering, seemingly unstoppable,

like the quintet of years of Trump’s lies, 

infantile tirades, 

braggadocio, 

dumb deflections, 

bellicose bullying, 

and defecating on our Democracy.

Ben Franklin, John Adams, and Thomas Paine

were passionate poets and patriots

who raised their Excalibur Pens and defiant voices

in order to elucidate, illustrate and illuminate

the Truth.

When it comes to the truth, Trump has

brutalized, raped, and sodomized it

in plain sight for 1,185 days.

Impervious to criticism, #45 is busy

doing his Caligula imitation while

finger-banging his beloved dictator dolls,

and spewing raw sewage from his fetid innards

onto the political landscape and the face(s)

of America. He plants his nose in the sacred

vaginas of Liberty and Justice, and his vile forked

tongue in the pliant ears of his willing lemmings.

Every night he reads Mein Kampf as his devotional.

This very day, at a press conference, he called

mail-in ballots a Democratic scam, and he would

not guarantee A peaceful transfer of power if/when

he loses the election. We’ll have to see, it depends 

on how much fraud we uncover from the Deep State.

He wants to Throw out all the mail-in ballots, 

knowing full well that 85% of his followers will show up,

maskless, in person to vote.

His malevolent disturbed nature is uncaring

of human life (210,000 dead),

of truth (23,000 lies documented),

of decency (not a shred),

of shame (never subscribed to),

of honor (a lifetime without it),

of tradition (does not respect it),

of the Constitution (has never read it).

The rabid wolf is at the door, folks;

better load the blunderbuss.

Glenn Buttkus

Meeting the Bar

Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub MTB