sycophants

Competitive mendacity's in vogue;
Trump's minions belt out paeans to their king.
Assuring an Executive gone rogue
his high opinion counts for everything.
Dystopic cityscape Curt Yarvin paints
is nowhere manifest down on the street.
He'll make up citizens, and their complaints
until his power-grab can be complete.
The People--past the beltway--ain't impressed,
sashaying past his brownshirts on a lark.
Assembling peaceably to seek redress
democracy lives on in People's Park.
Pathetic courtiers, pushing fictive "facts"
just hope they're not in line to get the ax.

bad faith

Trump cheats at golf; his cultists just don't care.
Integrity's a "weakness" in their books.
He tells them what to think, and what to wear,
and whom to listen to, and where to look.
The pizzeria basement child-sex ring
they'd swallowed at face-value on his word.
But Epstein, and the sordid child-rape thing
they shrilly sweep aside like it's absurd.
The clownish Orange face, and dumb red hat
denote--if you believe--that he's the Man.
You're called a traitor to observe he's fat
and stiffs contractors any time he can.
Deluded they're immune to his attacks
they fantasize that Trump will have their backs.

flip-flop

The war-chest Putin stocked by doubtful means/
looked like enough...until his blitzkrieg stalled.
But now, he's calling up cold-war machines,
and even Stalin might have been appalled,
at so much blood spent for so little gain.
Ukrainians prove quite as tough as Finns;
The paper tiger crumples in Ukraine.
Such wars are quick to lose, but not to win;
Trump's realized that Putin's cause is lost.
The empire of the Czars ain't coming back.
As long as Europeans bear the cost,
He won't restrain Ukrainians' attack.
Increasingly, the Kremlin sulks alone,
and darling Vanya's never coming home.