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Ode To a North American Asshat

By       Message Kevin Tully     Permalink

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Don Alonso and the poor wandering Noodle dribbled and dropped a trail of crumb

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Not truly wishing many or even one to follow

But lo and lower one of porcine gusto and vain slobbering soliloque

Has lit the dim trail with a sputtering flame

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The dark oily proud burning of turgid slogans and howling disaffections

Of the millions that share a stained and sotted bed

With torturers and lynchers and pinchers and tacky nincompoops


To scale the wall of proud schlockery and ignorance that rings this fetid moat

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Another wall like a line of loose boweled leavings

Must be laid to calm the popular dysentery of those that travel with The Asshat

His countenance like pornography drawn in the sanctuary

The utterances of his wormy mouth show images of his dead on hallowed walls

Made sparkley by wicked empresarios feting him

In their bleak circus boiled by snotty avaricious toadies simmering their children in the pot




A carnal dream of himself in the embrace of savage Crusaders and a squatting pink Il Duce

Woke him aroused and laying his slippered toe on the trail

Made before him by many that suffered and yearned for the truth that proceeds from care

The Asshat marched swollen from the tower toting

A nasty dripping sack of snacks for an American mob ecstatic in the wishing for an immaculate

Pasty future of lost angry anglo saxon pompous puffery

Distilled in a thousand kitchens of strap and chain muffins fit only for the thick and cruel




To make the place great again he struts the stages gyrating with cheap bawdy schlock and threats

Like potty mouth purple Orchs attempting fame

Resorting to exposing human decay in a display of the black art of hoggish hula hoops

Spinning like a festering bubo The Asshat assails the best

Of what we are with fly blown offal belching from the diseased abattoir of his privileged noggin

An immigrant lost in the generous lie of exceptionalism and contempt

Native American Grandmother says she has nothing to give him but wishes him peace


 

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Kevin is (writing about yourself in the third person (illeism) is a trip) an artist/writer/carpenter and frustrated songwriter living in Johnson City, Texas. His latest frustrating songwriting attempt is titled, "I Touched the Hand That Touched (more...)
 

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