Trump's let us glimpse his Orange totem toad.
The dexamethasone that made him bloat
did nothing to reduce his viral load.
Like Typhoid Mary's famous peach ice cream,
his rallies pump contagion through the crowd.
Without a mask, they're in your face to scream;
it's weirdly intimate, and way too loud.
The cure he's touting doesn't yet exist;
he's selling snake-oil to the credulous.
In character, he doesn't give a shit
what outcome may befall the rest of us.
The clown who boasts he'll never touch a drink
is running on more drugs than you may think.
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