Poetry, SocialThoughts

Ode to Donald Trump’s Hair

Wisps of joy,
Covering a mountainĀ of rot.

Decaying blades of grass,
Withering away,
Lay down theĀ 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.

 

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