A sonnet for DJT

Drunker on ego than the strongest booze

On clouds of lies he floats in toxic air

No “fact” that isn’t faker than his hair:

Acknowledging the “crowd” he soon will lose.

Lips alternating words and grins at random,

Desolate wastes of fantasy and lie,

Junkyards of hate where truth and honor die,

Tempting the dark desires of his fandom.

Ruling without a program or a plan

Unless to hear the chanting of his name:

Mount Rushmore is too small to house his fame.
President to prove himself a man.

For God’s sake, shut your trap and let us breathe.
Off-switch, you lardmouth:  find some place to seethe.

Richard Heller  September 2025