These days are the cold ones ahead of a principle event,
They have not yet been measured,
These days have not been met,
Yet quietly sit for those that forget,
The empty shelf where we put up our souls,
Is now entrusted to populist disciples.
Rarely we entertain those that have no exceptions,
But this has the gumption to commands our interest:
‘Angry and distracted,
Full of hope for the future,
Shake it up, and let it happen.’
People have been bitten by a stinging viper who carries poison,
Regardless of those who have spoken with intelligence,
Then followed it up with honest emotion.
Into the sky trumpets spit, infuriate, and sting,
A man who survives in his own slipstream, where reason avoids him,
His voice is so rancid television anoints him:
The King of Off-Things.
And he, temper woken, could have the world grasped,
In a few quick months, he could have the world in his bag,
All it takes is some scandal, and he is our man,
He has his future stuck onto his palm,
like a greasy paper he cannot un-command.
People may see,
How close the world became,
To being a bitter, isolationist, war-like, playground again.
There is little future,
With he as head umpire,
It’s only villainy in control,
And anarchy as the outcome.
Take the talk of his speeches again:
He’s gone with the wind,
Out some side-winding spin,
Or when there's no turning back,
Escalation must win.