(For a time, Sunday’s are for sonnets. We begin with free, chaotic verse that coalesces into a sonnet, but with ABBA stanzas, rather than the more traditional ABAB of Shakespearian sonnets).
PREAMBLE:
A loser.
More than anything.
A loser.
Love: A loser.
Business: A loser.
Bravery: A loser.
Elections: A loser.
No creator, just a hater.
A waiter for the Putinate.
The dawn upon the lawn
Shows the blood of many innocents.
Not a teacher, not a preacher.
If he can, he’ll try to reach her,
Stick his sickly sticky stubby hands
Beneath her bands.
It’s his closest approach to broach
The subject of true love.
Lady Liberty he’d gladly grope
If he could con a trope of rope-a-dope.
Like a friar with a briar in his britches;
Like a pussy cat who hisses and then pisses
Wherever he goes, he goes.
A splitter, not a hitter.
A bit like Hitler with a soul that’s even littler.
His littleness a wonder as he tries to tear us all asunder.
He snatches Bibles as well as pussies.
He’s a fellow who is yellow to his heart of wobbling jello.
He’s a puppy and a puppet; a sorry little muppet.
A rap sheet for a rat sheep.
A giga-gaga fool who’s jowls are spraying drool
The mango Mussolini who’s a mangy melon fool.
His ship has sailed. His coup has failed.
His acts will soon be nailed to the wall he never built.
He is crooked as a broken cow;
A man absurd, without a word
That anyone can count on.
Putrid knows it well. He’s just poison in the well.
Mango Mussolini would never ever dwell
In office if Putrid’s coup prevails.
Crude, lewd clowns who spray themselves with gold
Are less than dime a dozen. Putrid would install a cousin.
He trades in sumps and sewers.
Names are used as skewers.
Like a crow that loudly cawed,
He’s a frankly cranky fraud.
A pawn who likes to fawn
Upon his own necrotic dance.
An odd and frowsy drowsy prance.
He’s a rag tag brown down
Largely baggy clown.
With a suit of downtown diapers,
He tries to reason treason with his pipers.
From the Foe-Fox Terriers & Suckers
Carl’s son & Smucker’s cluckers & his clones.
Droning on and on and on until the lie seems natural.
Screams a meme, a theme, until a dream seems actual.
SONNET:
The crews who snooze; they’ll wake upon the land.
They’ll see what seemed such grand orchestral songs
Was just a band of candy coward schlongs.
Mirages mirrored & wavering o’er the sand.
Both time and tide will ebb and flow; and know
That truth will win the day at last and hate
And fear — that sea of filth — will dissipate.
The cuts all sutured; nature nurtured. Though
We must take care. Lay bare the plot to kill
Democracy through wealth & pelf & greed.
Corruption spreads a weedy, cancerous seed.
We’ll hoe, and weed, and weed and hoe until:
We’ll share the truth & goods for all alive.
Until all folx of earth survive & thrive.
Donny Boy Attends a Veterans Day Parade
What could be better? A horror story.
petersironwood 
Pingback: Sonnet: Supreme Sedition | petersironwood
Pingback: The 4th of July: Fire Works | petersironwood
Pingback: Gambit Disinclined | petersironwood