Walt Whitman Weighs In
O Con Man! Our Con Man! Your fucked-up trip is done.
This ship has weather’d every rack, the prize you’ve sought is gone,
Election’s near, the bells I hear, the voters all exulting,
With hollow eyes your reckless rule, your judgment grim and stupid;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O your grasping gasps of breath,
All the cost of your Con Man’s lies,
Saved from jail by death.
O Con Man! Our Con Man! Rise up and read the polls;
Rise up — for now your brand is shit — for now your bungle tolls,
For you court dates and plea bargains — for you indictments waiting,
For you they call, the surging mass, their angry faces turning;
Here, Con Man! Dear fraudster!
That fever in your head!
Is it some dream or just dumb luck,
You falling cold and dead?
Our Con Man does not answer, his Tweets now long last still,
The fraudster did not feel compassion, no pulse, nor goodwill,
The ship of state soon safe from you, your stormy voyage done,
From stem to stern your ship of fools goes down with sinking sun;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
Though note with mournful dread,
MAGA lives the Con Man’s lies,
Fear those walking dead.