President Comb-Over,
Quite the despicable guy
Got himself elected
But the wise folk wonder why.
Obama wore a tan suit
Conservatives went insane,
But this Wimpy lookalike butterball
Sports a totally artificial mane.

If ****** predation were a soccer game
This **** would win The World Cup.
If you ignored the news and his tweets
You’d think someone made this horror show up.
He’s lied and cheated and swindled his way
In to more lucrative deals than he deserved
Then a large minority of certifiable idiots
Elected him so he could to pretend to serve.

He took the Oath of Office, quite smugly
But that’s where his integrity would end.
He set about making deals for himself
His trophy wives, his offspring and friends.
He made few attempts to cover his tracks,
Mostly just shouted blatantly obvious lies
By which he was fooling no one intelligent.
Just the moronic, the foolish and unwise.

He relied on the vagaries of human nature
That voters are among the laziest humans
And would rather vote for a rascal it seems
Than take a chance on an honest new man
Or woman, or gay or an experienced soul
That could take over the Presidential reins
Instead of driving our country straight to hell
And making huge profits off the remains.

Brent Kincaid
4/23/2019

Oftentimes I find my self entranced
in how you'll catch me at a glance
when you first walk through our front door.
Will my leg dangle to the floor
with mischevious intent, my breast
concave inside itself and dressed
translucent in skin, glowing radiant
in what I reflect, a moon grey slate,
from your light source?
A celestial body on its course,
will I eclipse myself in the blinding dark
of an unconscious development
that lends me trembles delicate,
a slumbering lunar element circumvented
by a halo of blonde curls, suspended?
I spend centuries predicting
the me's I have and will depict,
yet it never is as I intend it.
You gravitate to me, unrestricted,
because we find ourselves addicted
to each other's whole, unscripted.