rowdy gladiators and all their liberal kills

there was a green goblin glint in his piggy eye
as the global warming sun kept approaching high noon:
his curious crowd came deferentially into view
watching him pretending to know what to do!
and they held a spelling bee but found he wouldn't read,
(a fatal flaw that he simply wouldn't concede).
the next day came slip-sliding in a Fox Mountain time
asking for poetic justice but then he couldn't even rhyme.
Humpty Dumpty said he'd pay for that Mexican wall
or perhaps a social platform from which to take a mighty fall.
and several diplomatic ladies dressed in Siberian shades of pink
heard he was color-blind and couldn't tell the truth or think;
the busy Washington wheels kept spinning and spinning
their tall tales of wine and easy winning
while an enormous coliseum fills
with rowdy gladiators and all their liberal kills.
farm animals in an Orwellian barn continued to boast
that they stoned a hippie coming in from the west coast,
as the nuclear clock keeps inching ahead,
because it's what the Alice-In-Wonderland caterpillar said.
BUT i do solemnly declare
i see citizen soldiers everywhere
marching on the village green:
one light if the British can be seen,
and two if they have to guess
there is extreme peril to our freedom of the press.

fire in my toes

fire in my toes
following the sun
whichever way it goes
and not to be outdone
my slowing walk
breaks into a run
striding to the wild
over the hill
but never enough
for getting my fill.
the babbling brook
playing the part,
an free-flying bird
comforting my heart.

no longer a virgin

and there was his ghost

spreading lies between the woman's legs,

sipping a Mar-a-Lago sour,

eating cheeseburgers and patriotic eggs,

counting down from five to almost six

playing stupid White House tricks,

looking for a safe place to hide:

one for every time he's lied

and 1,984 for the times

he asked his fixer to cover-up crimes.

and at the historic desk he sighs;

when the phone rings he takes her call.

"What do I care?" she says

from her fashionable bedroom down the hall,

counting down from five to almost six

playing stupid White House tricks,

with an accent from the European east,

in her Lincoln bed she tries to sleep
as John Wilkes Booth boldly makes his leap.

and flying turds

Barr, the dog, came to the hill
looking mean
unshaven
wearing a fancy suit
with an alligator cowboy boot
on one foot
while the other foot
stuck in his mouth.
he said he knew
what he was doing
sitting in his testimonial chair
muttering,
bewildered and pooing
words
in the shape of flying turds.