He is his usual talkative self today.
I can hear him from blocks away.
He is first, he is the loudest
In the midst of where the crowd is.
Like any cult leader
To many true believers
He is God in the flesh
No a demagogue at best.
In front mics and megaphone
His drum beats like a metronome,
Spinning tales taller
Than drunken men in parlours.
He talks socialism and "wokeness"
To the forgotten and the hopeless,
Inflaming passions
With whatever he imagines.
He is a traveling merchant
Of the reality alternate.
When truth is inconvenient
There can be no agreement.
Whose gonna save his soul?
He's broken hes never been whole.
He is a bottomless pit.
He was always "Unfit"
And a burning place below is beckoning
One day soon there'll be a reckoning!
WBJS 6/2/22