August 4, 2018
Pusillanimous political humor
is kind of like a metastatic tumor:
it usually keeps growing,
although nobody wants it.
Davey couldn’t resist poking a barb in the gluteus of “our” non-person VP.
Elsewhere in the simmering cauldron of hatred, killing and bad policies, a small boy kneels at the altar of heavily armed checkpoint guards.
Solar hucksters, meanwhile, call nearly every day. Davey’s response: none, son,
and he tends to shun sun;
getting pinked up is no damn fun.
Jimmy bought a piece of land
along a busy road;
as he told folks “please understand,
I need a place to unload.”