Buffoon Fate

The buffoon snickers, gaslights flicker
Next to his throne, disciples swoon

Nodding to the barrage of the silver-spoon
The press corps dash,
But what about?
But you said?

Before the flash dims, another last gasp.
Alone in a room with a doctor and her reused mask

Mouths agape, we replay the tape
Fight, flight or dissociate, there is no escape

From the bowels of his America, borders tighten around our necks
Our bulging eyes plead
Like ghosts hanging from our lynching trees

We let him dictate,
And reap our fate to suffocate

America the Great.

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