This fellow, ‘(NOT ME! ‘, I strenuously point out; I don’t even know anybody who’d have voted for a Drumpf instead of a President), he at least insists on rhyme until The End, as the Beast slouches on his gold toilet seat toward…Doom.
The bereft Poet’s got my sympathy and understanding (although he might’ve seen the writing on the wall even earlier, when she kinda blamed FEMA for Katrina, and Zika on the Olympics.
Anyway, here’s his lament. My takeaway is the wisdom of my own choices; (I once asked a total fox of a girl, all wet and bothered, what she thought of Velikovsky, that ‘Worlds in Collision nut-case a ‘candy candidate date’ back then should have known about, like ‘A Leppo’. Finding her answer ‘un-productive’, I went home alone that night. Yet I thereby perhaps saved myself from the horror our Poet here is going through:
‘I cain’t believe it!’ he wails. ‘…and I thought I knew you… and loved you.’
Here’s his plaintive cry:
My Baby lies, over ‘The Ocean’
An’ my baby lies.. over ‘The Sea’
She used to be ‘Science-in Motion’
But her ‘Denial’ is just killing me
Hey, the Globe is a ball with a Problem
Which only an Ostritch could doubt
(Or an ‘-ex’ who just swallows this Pablum)
…A Discussion I’ll now live without.
So I’m hoping she’s stocked up on sun-screen
And dresses from head down to shoes
Cause the Danger’s still there, though it’s unseen
Through blindness.. or the ‘experts’ you choose
Still I loved all the sweet things about her
Even back when she ‘doubted’ the pros
Now I’ll burn, freeze, or drown here without her
What became of her brain, no one knows?