When Coward's Die Then Leader's Rise Poem by James McLain

The hooded host,
That tell's
the man who's
Walking up that all
is well.

His hair is orange.

Inside it's warm,
The coals are burning
And it is cold,
But he doesn't know.
Nor does he care.

The swamp is over flowing,
With the rat's and flea bitten mice.
Bubbles stink of methane,
Slowly pop.
He lifts his leg and slowly settles,
Then he farts.

Trump makes the women strip down bare,
His tounge is lightning fast, he sticks it in.
Corrupt with craft.
His small hands, heft and weigh,
The little ball's of Congress men.

Though he,
May appear to be like them.
The young pages are now safe,
From being fondled by the rest.

All is well,
he says, that all is well.
Out on his yacht at night,
They are drunk with new found friend's
Or so they thought.

Each one is drugged by wine,
That's old and free.
A promise that he made,
to drain the swamp and they
Fell over board,
With hand's that were tied.
The house is blocked no more.
Not any more.

He tied Megan to his bed,
She to him gave birth.
To a tow head blond that,
Looked like him.
But had large hand's,
And little feet.

And each night he picked,
One single leaf from her leafy bush.
Till they were gone,
And she admitted she was wrong.
And I look up her dress just like him,
And now shes quit her t.v. job,
And is climbing tree's.