I saw an old man of the antique kind
Who bragged: “Behold my Gold Arches made of stone
Blocking our nation’s heroes, but no mind—
They’re losers anyway,” he said with a frown,
His thin hair balding, a smear of cold command
Showing his handlers well those passions read
Which yet survive this rambling, angry man
Who our Constitution tried to shred.
And in gold lettering these words appear:
“My name is Donald J. Trump, King of Kings.
Look on my works, ye Patsies, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of Democracy’s wreck, boundless and bare
The damage from MAGA stretches far away.
