Copeium: A Poem

MAGA is stoaked,

screaming cope to the woke,

as they boast and gloat with their Marlboro smokes

floating high after their vote

for their joke dope cantaloupe G.O.A.T.,

who groped and stroked a boatload of disrobed coyotes,

promoted copious zygotes to a post above their host,

and echoed and spoke numerous reposted misquotes,

as he backstroked and corroded the jolted upward slope

of my once great nation.

Fuck, I wish he'd croak...

Maybe he could slip on a soaped rope?

Implode on his golden commode?

Choke on charred toast in his untoned, bloated throat?

Bestowed damnation by the Pope?

Sent afloat on a leaky lifeboat somewhere remote?

Diagnosed with a terminally narrowed left cerebral lobe after being thoroughly goaded with an overloaded probe?

Have a stroke in a polluted moat sitting next to a toad?

Because then I can stop being such a loathsome provoked misanthrope,

uselessly composing scolding truths to the cajoled,

who were boldly sold a vile, grotesque, overflowing, stinking load

secretly wishing for an angrily poked, coked-out, trenchcoated rogue bloke

to nope and revoke this exposed cutthroat

in a cloak of scoped gunsmoke

to force him out of his borrowed baroque abode

owned by the broken townsfolk

of this once great nation.

A girl can hope.

Or there's always yoked rope…

Maybe I'll just tope an antidote of chardonnay (unoaked)?

Or get hopelessly stoned while I decode the unknown,

reaching a mellowed plateau with tokes of cold snow I have stowed in my tote,

and pen a note wrote on this enclosed envelope

to say goodbye to the old, moping, doting, hallowed ghosts

of a once great nation.