The Rat in the Hat

Little Donald came to power

at the perfectly wrong hour.

With a shocking upset he ascended,

just as illness, hatred, and poverty blended.

Or was it the opposite,

that plagues made him ‘it’?

Made him The Man,

mad him The Plan…

of that my aggrieved, distressed white man?

That man who loved the way things were,

but had no love for those like her,

with different sex or different skin,

or open borders letting “them” in.

When one’s dead, does it matter how?

Ask poor Herman Cain if he cares now.

Not to one in a coffin,

not to us sick of winnin’.

So sick we’re literally suckin’ air,

praying the virus will somehow be fair,

and maybe infect those who gambled our lives,

instead of our children’s, our parents’, and wives’.

Republican enablers, criminals all,

keep their denying deplorables in thrall,

of times gone by with bussing and jobs,

with segregation and ghettos but no ugly mobs.

When the good ol’ days for half were so good,

but hardly a picnic in the neighborhood.

When takin’ a knee, for kids at least,

only meant something sick with a priest.

When cops knelt to help children avoid,

minor problems… not lynch the prostrate George Floyd.

When children were gunned down in daycares and schools,

but guns were protected by moralist fools.

We didn’t care then but now we’re all woke,

in a haze of endless teargas smoke.

Don’t ruin our sports with a knee or raised fist;

do that on your own time, where it won’t exist…

where we can’t see the past

in its ugly light,

but enough hypocrisy makes it all look just right.

Yes, we get it, “it’s just the flu.”

It’s you, not me. That’s why, that’s who.

I’ll die sooner or later, so why lose my business?

Science? Politics? All the same crookedness.

What? In those shithole countries not everyone died?

That’s fake new for sure. Surely you lied.