(not a poem, just a prattle)
~ with apologies to Bob Wills and Asleep at the Wheel ~
Who's that guy with the red tie on? Some folks call him Donnie
Might even get elected again, although he is a phony
Send him back to Tulsa, He’s too dumb to serve thee
Send him back to Tulsa, He’s not Presidentially!
We’re all stuck. All maladjusting. In this together or just lusting
For days better in laughing crowds and something peeking through dark clouds?
My poor wife in sequester with this jester, no one else that he can pester.
Forgive my childish rhymes and addled plans with horrible verse-defying scans.
During four months of washing hands, caught IT thirteen times in various strands.
My brain is damaged. My spirit weak. My voice cracks when I try to speak.
Call me hypochondriac, paranoid or sinner. But can there really be a winner
When the name of the game beating you is that danged old Donald Trump Flu!
Time fleeting, memory failing, emotions ever loudly wailing,
must have skipped this day of training.
Isolation, desolation, frustration fountains of recrimination.
Facemask blunder makes one wonder,
Fake News, scary views, Spiro Agnew’s in reviews,
Streets full, cafes empty, Black and White so uptight, won’t go down without a fight,
Cops feared, nurses cheered, leaders clueless, virus ruthless, racism in plain sight!
Black and White so uptight, leftward leaning, right careening, Hey Ref stop the fight!
The Man paddle-less and deluded up a creek Presidentially polluted!?!
Sink or swim ain’t nothing new, talking ‘bout the Donald Trump Flu!
Am I woke? Am I dreaming?
Life flashing, or perhaps streaming, behind eyes unwide, semi-weeping.
Why am I here? What have I done? Wrong? Wrong? All that fun?
Cisco’s Bloody Mary —Texas Ranger very scary — speak or be wary?
Hungering for equality, starving for normality
Can we make zucchini do, ‘til we squash The Donald Trump Flu?
Hand grenades can go boom, memories may forecast doom.
Too late to apologize for tolerating what I did despise?
The fever! The fever! Does this set show Beaver Cleaver?
Too much TMC — time to switch to BBC, am I them or are they me?
Click on the channel all about golf, I’m playing with Maya Rudolph?
Father Brown is in my town with Scarlett Johansson he’s settling down.
Inspector Morse is riding a horse, arresting Nazis with due force.
Humphrey Bogart took a knee, Heidi Klum on a shopping spree.
White supremacist coughed in my face, Miss Marple spayed him with her mace.
Going mad, more than half-crazy, dip more ice cream before I get lazy.
But the half-dreams are not all bad, I see Lynn dancing in our pad,
Minimalist moves not like my flailing, sensuality unfailing.
Meanwhile Whitey can boogaloo to the hack-hack of The Donald Trump Flu.
Cancel the GEORGE FLOYD sequel, much too late to stop the prequel!
Avoid, AVOID the looming Void. This crime don’t rhyme
or reason, but must Renew the protest season.
Can’t make the fever dream stop or lift the knee of that damned cop.
Too late to sound the alarm when rampant corruption has become the norm?
What can a poor old white man do, but sing the blues of The Donald Trump Flu?
Black Lives Matter! MeToo# So do I so do you.
Share the wealth. Secure our health. Stand up! Kneel down!
March through the city, march through the town.
But VOTING must be part of the cure for something so wickedly pure
As the crap the Klan can spew, or that mean ol' Donald Trump Flu!
James BigBoy Medlin © 2020
James BigBoy Medlin was the sports writer for the original Austin Sun. His column was called "Why Not?"
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