Roundhouse Kick to the Solar Plexus
Hand that gentleman the brass shears.
We gingerly wrap tape around our knuckles
And prepare to cut some heads.
The governor is fat as a dump truck
And plays free and loose with the facts.
The pundit is pink-faced half-wit
Determined to lower the denominator
While men twice his better rot
In a Newark jail for an ounce of Bambalacha.
I would like the Dallas businessman
To live for a week in the shoes of Eleanor Bumpurs.
If something disgusting looks in your eyes,
Flip your collar and wear your sunglasses.
If we don’t tell you, no one will know.
