As many of my readers know, I'm a recording artist (blues and country). I have refused to do rap for my entire career, not least because rappers do not in general sing, or play real instruments. However, I had to put that decades-long conviction aside when I saw this story. I have never used an obscenity or expletive in a column published here, but such terms are integral within rap music, and beyond that I shall ask you to forgive my very real anger that my country has made such a world-shaking sociopolitical error, and has no quick way of rectifying it.
I have no title for this poetic synthesis of many of the themes I have been writing about for the last several years.
He's got to know what he says is a lie, but maybe he believes that pigs can fly.
Think out loud and offer asides, that's how Trump rolls, that's the way he rides
He might believe that that locker room talk will do for us, that sh*t can walk
The NFL, the Muslim tweets, Russia and Flynn, I wouldn't want to be in the shoes he's in,
There's so many itches he can't stop scratching, he doesn't give a crap that the whole world's watching
Now he plays it off the cuff like he was the victim, the tape's not authentic, it can't really be him,
He stumps for a fondler before a Democrat, though everybody's telling him to not do that,
Doesn't even like his girl child for being real, in the middle of him trying to make a deal,
He confessed to the words then, admitted he was wrong, now thirteen months later, it's a different song.
You just have to wonder if he's a crazy dude, he's more than just crude and stupid and rude,
He's said he wasn't perfect, and he had regret for a whole lot of things, and knows that we're upset,
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He said he was sorry what we heard that night, and we must have believed he had set it right,
Because we elected him, put him in command, with the nuclear launch codes in reach of his hand.
An ignorant, racist, tax-dodging bullshitter, who gutted American diplomacy with Twitter,
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My name is William Perkins Homans the third, but probably more people know me as the bluesman (and artist) Watermelon Slim.
I've been in the fight against war, fascism, injustice and inhumanity for 40 years. I was at MayDay, and at the moratorium March the week before. I was one of the leaders of the Great New Jersey Turnpike Stall on my birthday, April 25, 1971.
I bear the scar on my left shin from a neoNazi jackboot, when I was one of the Vietnam Veterans Against the War who bounced the NSWPP from Flamingo Park at the Republican National Convention of 1972. My father fought the Nazis in the North Atlantic and Anzio, and I met their spawn in Miami.
My formal education has been first-rate. I wouldn't trade my degrees for Harvard ones. I was raised in the finest private Catholic and Episcopal high schools.
Elementary School: Gibbons Hall, Asheville, North Carolina
High Schools: Asheville School for Boys, Asheville Country Day, Lenox School for Boys. Graduated with honors 1968.
College: Middlebury College, 1968-DNG
1984-86: University of Oregon, B.A., Journalism and History, Departmental Honors in History, 1986.
I was also captain of the U of O bowling team, 1984-1986. High game 299.
1997-2000: Oklahoma State University. M.A., History, 2000, plus the school-teaching curriculum. Mentor: Dr. Ronald Petrin.
This was my second great self-reinvention attempt. In both, I got the degrees, but neither worked. After both, I went back to truckdriving and the blues. and now the latter makes my living. I just am not a button-down enough fellow ever to be a schoolteacher or general-purpose news reporter. But I think and analyze, and so I write...
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