Trump The Bully Poem by Mario, Lucien, Rene Odekerken

He walks into the room,
a storm in a suit,
filling the air with thunder
before a word is spoken.

His voice, a hammer,
breaking, bending, shaping.
Names become weapons,
truth a plaything,
mockery a tool sharpened by applause.

He does not listen, only waits,
for the next turn to speak,
for the next moment to strike.
Power is not enough,
control is the prize.

The crowd watches,
some laughing, some silent,
some shrinking into shadows.
But even the loudest voice
can be swallowed by time.