♪ prison bars in his eyes
Frayed Cords
Although the clarity of disdain for humanity has been a corroded coagulation of red carpet stains sewn through the linked lives of the trump clan, there is just a bit something more that is oozing from the pus bag now sitting in our Presidential chair.
The sagging painted on skin and slumped posturing and meandering walkabouts and bursting word vomit and . . . all collage into a stinking mass of a personage that is simply kept ‘alive’ as the carrot of distraction. Almost as if the puppeteers have effectively created an untruth social spewing effigy to dangle in front of the blurred vision and clouded minds of the entire world population.
The now tyrannical lizard ass is literally being constantly reanimated during booster visits for ‘cognitive’ testing as a litter ally. Dumping a consistent house of discards into the increasingly weakening power deck of Our US of A. What with a cabinet of pumped up hallucinogens there may be no doubt as to the wizards of Oz keeping the T.rump bouncing from flipper to pop bumper over gobble hole with every kickback.
The puppet masters were all too-too happy to enable the orange lizard’s leap of face into the presidency to avoid the inevitable remainder of life in prison. The many shadows hiding in plane site have an eagerness to keep the smoke and mirrors playing out in sleight of hand over fist.
For there is no other ventriloquist’s dummy that can fill the dragging clown shoes wearing thin the base boards of the People’s House. So many dumb·bells but no extra shiny balls to play.
And although there are clear attempts toward a conversion kit, it is becoming increasingly self evident that if the walking carcass of the t.rump is allowed to finally decompose during one of those fake praise drenched cabinet fester rings, or mile high word vomit twerks, or oval orifice golden shower room visits, or depressed corpse briefings, or . . . the holders of the poison strings will suffer a severe tilt and a lost wrecking ball that falls through the gates of dead flippers and down the drain . . . and thankfully .
Game Over
°
We The People Win