The First to the Last (or, Ten Deaths For Donald)


In the ever marred race to win, only we will be losers
As we watch, our breath bated, as Doom’s representative
Donald still continues to jerk on us all; filling each face
Which supported him with the ordure secured from
The orders that only madmen make from fate’s call.

34 guilty lines may turn into bars come November,
So what form of Republican party will echo Boris J’s
Covid thrall? To toast as coasts roast across the States,
This Fifth Horseman, who after Pestilence, War, Death,
Famine blackens each dare laced debutante at her ball?

He would have bought them all if he could, grabbing them
By the pussy, or dating them as his daughter, while poisoning
Families and the very idea of home, all across the stricken
States strewn beneath him. I’m told that only 35% will vote
For him, but they violently rouse homily to this mess of a man,

This gold flaked muck mopped by money, who has come
To epitomize degradation and just how far each dream falls.
Camus would have to rewrite and Harvey Kurtzman too,
And Steve Colbert, for no-one satirizing could picture
The absurdity and the gall, of this fat disease in a suit,

Who will bust through bars to bomb Russia, or Ukraine
For that matter, or Israel and first Palestine, and anyone else
Who dares to defy him. May Stormy Daniels rain on him
And may her settlement soon define what justice is
And his crimes perpetrated on women, as well as history

Also, as George Washington’s tree rotted fast,
So may Donald be damned and may we all learn
The lesson. And may this President’s unholy precedent
Shatter; die ten deaths Donald, and may you not be
The first one to last. I do not wish you death of the flesh

But of reputation and status. Influence, also. And from
That slur, all support. May your money drain or turn
To dust falling from you; and may your corruption
Of language and prescribed ridicule become sport.
May the coasts you’ve ruined regrow, either over there

Or in Scotland, and may your women, either related
Or not seek new names to paper over you;  I hope
That even your fucked hair will fly from you,
And may the minds you have muddied seek a clearer
Stream to douse flames that you have fed for too long

May history have you archived. A joke, just like Johnson
To be told by the wise in a game played not on ruins
I pray, but in palaces of understanding; unlined by gold.
And yet shining, a place in which news becomes both
True and honest. You are the fake. Let fate take you.

As well as the Devil and may some great God, too

                                             Do the same.



                                                           David Erdos 31/5/24





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