(This not a poem. It only looks like one in which some paragraphs got pretentious and thought they were stanzas. But it has no lift. I’m hearing a final thud.)
Even as our arsenal of antibodies delivers its shock
Covid is not in awe, busy unmuting its mutant.
It’s tit for tat, is it? Then take this and this!
And we still have that other toxic miasma,
Trump residue, against which we have not
achieved herd immunity. What’s heard
is the herd of sheep. Bah!
Donald, part Big Mac, hollow and where’s the beef?
Part duck, he quacks and everywhere a quack, quack.
Over his four years, virus-Trump has morphed
from stormy erection and MEGA resurrection
to rigged election to mindless insurrection.
Masked in flim-flam, delusions and lies
his cover has fallen away and he walks unmasked
having washed his hands of a half million deaths,
a government in shambles, a nation divisible
and an ignorant army of somnabulant thugs.