Poetry, SocialThoughts

Ode to Donald Trump’s Hair

Wisps of joy,
Covering a mountain of rot.

Decaying blades of grass,
Withering away,
Lay down the plot.

Tell me, fine sir
Where go your flippant seed?
Where go the blood you seethe?

I have been to the pearly gates
I have seen the destined fates
Little threads combed over and over,
Hoping to sway a greater part.

But blow thee away,
Back to your golden bed.
Take heed to the wind.
Snip, your platform is end.

 

Advertisements
Standard

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s