(from Fernando Po, U.S.A., America's post-literate retreat to Plato's Cave)
A virus lives upon its host
So if its host should die
The virus also dies. A ghost
Cannot infect a guy
Or girl. So cheer Trump’s latest boast,
And to the sick say, “Bye!”
The Cult of Donald Trump exists
Because the Boobies crave
Someone to sort them into lists
From birth until the grave
Confirming that their life consists
Of working like a slave.
So what if surplus humans croak?
The wealthy can’t see why
They shouldn’t speculate and soak
The Boobies passing by.
The thieves in their transparent cloak
Fear not the Boobie eye.
Republicans and Democrats
Produce stock-price inflation
They stage their scripted, phony spats
Then leave for their vacation
The virus may have come from bats,
But not Trump’s vacillation.
Still, Boobies like their phony pure,
By reason undiluted.
They’ll take disease instead of cure
As long as not disputed
By TV pundits smug and sure,
Assange and Manning muted.
Michael Murry, "The Misfortune Teller," Copyright © 2020