Poetry-Thing Thursday: Rezi Dump

Rezi Dump,
Rezi Dump,
what an orangish,
vileish,
unstylish lump!

A congealed hint of bliss,
shaked, baked, and burned at high-heat.
Smothered in shit, rinse and repeat.

Ad infinitum.

Rezi dump, Rezi dump!
You oafish fat clump,
I’ve stepped in shit with more use,
than you and those you hump.

So why don’t you,
and perhaps they,
take a flying fuck,
up in the lake,
that you’ve pissed down upon us,
then have a sit,
on one of Vlad’s stakes.

Meanwhile, you dawdle,
while we clamber to wash,
and quarantine the area.

Because Rezi Dump,
my Ruskie stump,
you’re a traitor in form,
in kind
and in slump.
So fuck right off,
up t’drain’t swump.

We’ll let you live,
leave with your shame.
Because we’ve no time,
for hatred or blame.
It was always rigged,
this game,
and you’ve your part,
in this, the fame,
that comes of great failures,
and expulsion of shame.
Too bad for you,
you’re the shit in the flame.

For you’re Rezi Dump,
and you blew the bump;
one too many times,
one too many rimes.

You broke the camel’s back,
for you and for your ilk.
Now we rally as wizards,
cloaked in white silk,
our weapons in hand;
fruited electron eyes,
combined with organic minds.

Sense from the senseless? Certainly.
But that was always assured.
No matter how ridiculous or absurd,
there was always retrospect coming,
after the herd.

Bird,
after all,
is the word.

So, Rezi Dump, Rezi Dump,
you didn’t do it,
but rejoice anyway,
people are great again,
if only, if only,
if only you’d join ’em.

But you won’t;
you’re a corpse,
long drowned in a sump.
You’re bloated and frightening,
and parade like a Klump.
My dear ‘ol,
Rezi Dump,
thyne buttmunch,
what happened to that card?
They called it the Trump.

Well whatever happened,
fuck off up your rump.
For we’ve shit to do,
and zero time,
for pitiful shits like you.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Mr. Fizzie’s House of Tizzies

Mr. Fizzie’s House of Tizzies,
where courageous cats meet buxom old bats,
and slithering snakes eat vile rattling rats,
and seldom sits the fury-faced gnats.

So come one, come all, this righteous fall,
for pigs in pants that tell crowds that chants,
of plans profound that’ll make ransom rounds,
of national nouns and kowtowing clowns.

Yes step right up, the future is fucked,
because outward oinkers are running rampant,
and glowing gaudy with envious-eyes empty,
while moral peasants gobble up their sparkling spunk.

It’s the Outrageous Orangutan vs the Mad-Hatted Hag,
and neither nitwit is more than a personal puppet,
for their monstrous masters and controlling corporate cum-pit,
and they’ll sell our souls for green and gold greed.

So cast your vote for the villainous goat,
and put your head to bed, to kiss your ass dead,
‘Cause at Mr. Fizzie’s House of Tizzies, it’s quite a pity,
to be one who’s witty,
for no matter which way you vote,
the result’ll be shitty.