Up to your no good — still? — are you, brass neck,
hopped up gust, blur, bad vibe, heap of slag piled
on top of hope? Make less way for the yacht
caste. Put the god-blessed arms down, can tough talk,
stuff a bung in the blurt hole that comes words.
The folk are not a rant pot, not an up
ramp for pricks and scamps of base ilk to scam.
Stow it now. Just give it a break full stop.
Bone up on this one fact, Hunk-Ra: Not a
be-best look, top-gun move, to sic goon-voys
of NRA-gassed SUVs on we the peeps;
deck cribs with gilt dreck, scarf down tubs of meat,
egg white-might tribes on, hang with canned-tan pervs,
cop feels from glam run-way dolls with boss racks;
it’s a short putt to mud in that club, hoss.
This show has bombed. What say we vote you off,
give a heave ho to the art of the dud, stud?
If we don’t ditch this bum deal there’s no way:
It’s thoughts and prayers time for the USA.
(c) 2020 JMN