Airplane vortex edit.
(Image by Wikipedia (commons.wikimedia.org), Author: NASA Langley Research Center (NASA-LaRC), Edited by Fir0002) Details Source DMCA
I'm starting to get this feeling quite queasy,
That this year's election ain't gonna be easy.
Not that choosing 'tween Joe B. and His Blondness
Is great enigma unless you've a fondness
For Lies-on-Bagel and Buffoonery-on-Rye,
But once choosing's over, one guy has to cry.
And if it's ol' Don whom fate for tears chooses,
He'll not drown his sorrows in 50-proof boozes,
But more likely call out his angry white sheep:
"Go forth, o deceived ones, and raise a great peep!"
And forth will they baa and who knows just how loud,
Surround the White House with their guns raised and proud.
But if by surprise or the Supreme Court's nod,
Mr. Prez keeps his job and continues his fraud,
The cross-country squeal will truly astound,
And to the White House will a million be bound,
To toss rotten eggs, stain Melania's dress,
And shout down his second inaugur' address.
Or as in banana republics so lame,
Perchance both assert that they've won the game,
And both claim office and the title to bear,
Consider the Supreme neither here nor there,
Since Don rigged it quick just before the elec',
Which let him deal cards from a sweetly stacked deck.
Yes, "adults in the room," have turned into ghosts,
And caught the proverbial last train for the coast,
Leaving the conservs and libs to their sneering,
Their passions to brook no media steering,
Leaving this event in our dear ol' repub'
To be settled by the bomb, the rifle and club.
(Article changed on October 24, 2020 at 16:19)