On Donald Trump, Brexit, Faith, etc.
Mouthing eyes that lick at numbers
Lap up followers who expect
A raised or returned country pride
From promises sent out in swathes.
Pale shrunken fingers decorate
A paler shrunken hand and flick
Through a pile of paper in spite
Of popularity issues.
These digits use a wooden tool
To count stars and stripes, but neglect
Numbering older friends, older foes,
Or the Faithful whom he should know.
Building the barn, calling the men:
“Eat, drink, be merry my folk and
We shall be giants in our land!”
Yet our souls are required of us.
These are our times – the worst of times;
As all people’s are – and he counts
On it being, for he needs it.
In chaos mad kings rule the world.