See the unsavory pol trying to hide His habit of pigging out on pheasant Under glass instead of tripe—still Under the circumstances, one has to agree One cannot be too conservative; you see The down-and-out still have this nose For bullshit that’s downright cruel And can smell when someone’s stuffing His craw on pâté de foie gras while serving The chawbacons back on the farm Liberal helpings of hogwash and gruel.
Will the candidates poised For undying posthumous fame ever stop
Feeding entries into their infernal Recycling machines?
Moderator’s comments: I have no idea, Huuk, but I can venture a wild guess: As soon as a fire-breathing, flying white horse powered by an insatiable lust for the likes of hubris-driven, never-say-die flamboyant and fiery poetry hacks arrives on the scene?
Sheets of lightning vault across A leaden sky on the dome rain Thunders down under the terrible Eye of the Pantocrator the huddled Faithful trampled underneath the crypt Remains sealed no one asks why.