In the shadow of the depraved and frayed,
a lady pledges to Ronald Reagan’s name.
Heavy is the crown crafted with her iron fists.
Heavy smoke from the ideas on her hit list.
What do you expect from the class of ‘84?
What do you expect when the apple’s rotten to the core?
She’s choked with the chains that she adorns.
Sinister intentions mock the ones she scorns.
False prophets — her counsel for misconduct —
condemn her people whenever they’re brought up.
Liquescent eyes mirror numbers and products.
They examine the test scores of those who got shot up.
. . .
Obstruction of justice, birthed from injustice.
One nation under a system of corruption.
Pledge allegiance to her flag of Reform and Regression.
Plans for aggression, digression, transgression, and repression.
No regard for the hearts of the harmed.
Disregard the red flags and screaming alarm.
“Don’t fight. Comply.” Her attempt to connect,
but it won’t clean her mess, ‘cause she won’t confess.
. . .
Won’t bless the rest. Lifeless, no blood.
NPCs march to a beat with no drum.
Mouths, no tongue. No air, vacant lungs.
They whisper chaos, lies they’ve spun.
Perform on command. Conform or die.
Reform to lies. No matter what the price.
Arrive early, leave late. Still, not on time.
Plantation of damnation. That’s the master’s plan.
Slave to the whip in the master’s hand.
Slave to her thoughts and commands.
Slave to her oppressive demands.
Slave to her recessive plans.
. . .
When did the way out become a dead end?
Burnt out, the final drag of a cigarette.
Cancer remains when love should take space.
Nicotine, unyielding. Prescription for the old days.
From paper bag lunches to plastic food.
Leeches on their tongues like elastic glue.
A fantastic, spewed, and crude mess of unchewed
keeps them dull like their pencils, which are few.
Soapy hair, mangled in sticky knots.
“Late again?!” Mental breakdown. Totally shot.
Last week’s bath smells of rot.
“Bless you, haves, and damn you, have-nots.”
Pill poppin’. Kids stoppin’. An epidemic.
Lost, never found due to a pandemic.
Only saved the ones with superior eugenics.
They only advertise the smiles of the photogenic.
. . .
When the total number of prison cells
is the difference from those that excel,
it all adds up. To sum it up so well,
the problem is the equation she sells.
She sells these cells coast to coast,
north to south. From lowest to most.
September to August. Winter to Autumn.
Bribes for kings and sheriffs. She’s bought ‘em.
. . .
Yet, in her midst, stands a herd of misfits
with a twisted list. Undercurrent like yesterday’s mist.
Steps as soft as a kiss with a poisonous tip.
Private plans to, in time, riot and blitz.
No opportunities missed. Better move swift.
They resist. They’re pissed with the Miss.
More than a wish, her crown to squish.
Red Hats and MFL Karens applaud her.
“Scrounge for your needs and be bought for a dollar.”
But she couldn’t have predicted the final lesson they taught her:
. . .
“Fire between the lines, we’re not the starters.
Your “leadership,” we won’t take any longer.”
Her Royal Highness couldn’t stop the daughters
and sons who thought up a lot of those thoughts of
plots of plotting against the claws of
her tyranny coated with pristinely flawed gloves.
They have a plan to rescue the banned.
Righteous fire against the fire of the damned.
“We are not the problem!” It rocks ‘em
and haunts ‘em unsparingly.
. . .
False hope and salvation. She claims, “You’re free.”
The Class of ‘26 screams, “God save the queen!”
The fire that was started long ago by her ego
has turned on the queen and consumed her throne.
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