The Trickster

It was a cavernous mouth that the orange wig wore,
and it hungered and hungered after five courses of adulation,
and became bloated on the bedlam it sowed.
And when it didn’t get its banquets,
the mouth puckered and turned nasty,
and lit respectable senators on fire.

And the jeering crowds were not enough,
and the outraged champagne lefties were not enough.
He wanted hits and the big-time jerk-off circus
of ratings on a presidential scale.

And he obsessed over angles and entrances,
and made it his first order of state
to put up self-portraits in solemn halls of power,
to hide the terrifying defects of the trickster king
behind industrial strength spray-on tan,
to turn truth into lies and deny the lies again.

And he grew easily bored with the minutiae
that kept this inebriated world balanced on its tightrope
between fascist alligators and orgies of atomic lust.

The rope is sagging in the middle,
the tightrope walker in chief is tottering,
distracted by a shiny mirror,
the Big House pegs are all at breaking point.
Hold onto your britches earthlings,
the puckered mouth has bitten off more than it can chew!

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