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It is presidential politics as usual for the party of Lincoln,
who tosses and turns in his grave as I write these words.
Tolerance was the keystone to his tenure.
Intolerance is the foundation of their party platform.
False prophet philosophy of small government
stretches octopi limbs into the national bedroom,
lurking like some mad scientist
tearing open the uteri of women,
snatching newborn infants within.

Surrounded by well-trained junkyard dogs,
poised to suck flesh from the opposition,
conjuring grandiose lies in the blink of an eye,
armed with righteousness of religious belief,
the junk man is here to sell us his bill of goods,
every four years whether we like it or not.

You can’t trust the junk man.
This brazen chameleon dressed in sheep’s clothing
relentlessly seizes failed ideas and renders them anew,
unrepentantly pilfers lifelines from the poor,
shamelessly siphons finances to the wealthy,
unapologetically alters his position paper every day
to reflect shifting direction of wind,
leering down upon the frozen masses,
hiding his Uzi beneath a toothy grin.