Fouling his crawling pit
The obscene pretender roars.
In his revolting dreams
The dead still stare.
With eyes like crimson olives
Throbbing in his hands.
The sinews of their souls
Are infinite and great.
Do you call us your people now,
As the nation screams?
Lying, thieving coward.
Your ugly claim is disallowed.
It never was a right.
You inflicted it with pain.
Dressed up like a roach,
A scuttling, deviant parasite
Who defecates with words. © Will Barton 2011 Click on images to enlarge
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