The Macy’s Parade

by Jim Work

Were he not the occupant
of the big white house in town,
he’d be an ideal candidate
for NYC’s floating clown.

Towering above “the city”
with an ego twice that size,
he tweets his mind with no pity
’cause he’s already won the prize.

His wealth is built on our strong backs;
he cares not for our toil
as he spouts a gusher of lame bombast
while half the planet boils.

His words are simple diatribe
while his simple mind exults;
the words are mostly BS for soliciting a bribe
as the world hangs precariously awaiting the results.

For a man who perceives his image
as the biggest memorial on the square,
his accomplishments so far a scrimmage
in the mirror lying bare.

With his voice in a trailing trill,
his words of elementary school do drone
while he signs away our lives, a mere stroke of his quill,
but the Oval Office just hasn’t got a throne.

For three more years we’re stuck with him,
his accomplishments will be few.
Like a full eclipse our prospects dim,
our feet in the fire heating up the stew.

So as our leaders bow and curtsy,
he spews his hate-filled prose.
From all their seats they show no mercy
as they stomp upon our toes.

America the beautiful
could and should be great.
We’ve got the tools to be bountiful
if our leaders open up the gate.

So strap on your seat belts,
it’s gonna be a bumpy ride
as we watch the Arctic mountains melt
with our acid stomachs awaiting a peptide.


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