So Far From Grace, We Might as Well Laugh to Keep From Crying
And while we're dying, we might as well try rhyming
I can’t bear to turn on the TV or even listen to the news
So I get out my pen and plead with my muse
Please bless me with a couplet or three
To get the heebie jeebies out of me.
Or if not out, because they come right back
A poetic distraction might be the tack
I have to take, to give myself a break
And prevent a politics-produced heart attack.
Can poetry change the course of human events
And unelect increasingly unpopular presidents?
What will it take to make my wish come true
And see MAGA red transform into blue?
At the moment number 47 does what he pleases
In spite of me getting down on my kneeses.
Instead of begging, which I know won’t work
Let me put a spell on this first-class jerk.
Double, double toil and trouble
Fire burn and caldron bubble
Send the president I already mentioned
To El Salvador for some therapeutic detention.
He needs a taste of his very own medicine
So that he’ll never ever do this again
And reverse all those orders executive
That make Reds smile and Blues spit expletives.
Day by day he gets ever more blustery
Which is aided of course by his use of Musk-ery.
But let’s make sure he’s out of harm’s way
And banished folks can come back to stay.
We’ll undo all the harm that he’s done
He can go back to Mar-a for fun in the sun
Or join Elon on a trip up in space
While our little rhymes make the world a far better place.