by Michael Thomas Ellis
The North American Blankenspiel, of the order
republicanus, family deceitae, and genus
horriblus, is a splithound of the lowest phylum,
and is prone to attack anything unlike itself.
Those scamsack gavelbeaters have fracked away
our goodwill, webspun our naïve trust,
sucked dry the corpus democratus, and cast
it upon the now steaming dungpyre of hope.
Are you bonesmack with me on this?
Or do you side, snickerdly, with these
tatterbacked pursebiters and coinseekers
who would make pissplay of our institutions?
Dismiss those questions at your own peril!
These sociostrats are voracious squathogs,
and they will set their spitbark eyes on you next,
should you fail to dance to their soulburnt music.
Rise up against the factnapping Blankenspiel!
Send these noxious truthsplitters back to their caves,
lest they make embittered trembletons of all of us,
and our republic but a fiefdom of pervious kneebenders.
Michael Thomas Ellis is retired and piddles around the suburban outskirts of Tampa, writing a few poems here and there, submitting rarely, therefore published rarely. This is a bit of a departure, but hey, 'tis the season, eh? Vote... please.
