Little Weiner-Fingers
©2021, Olan L. Smith
I am tired, too tired for a writer on this globe,
Where nothing mattered but the golden robe.
A sudden thump! courses into years of discord, where kings crawl
On bended knee, and queens voices are lost in the squall.
Thumpidy on his way to a plunge. Whose objection
Dares the orange faced one, a broken headed abjection
Unaware of others. We created this nation's jackknife,
He merely wiener-fingered his tiny brain to find a negative life.
He was more than willing to piss it all away, did you meet our ex-POTUS,
Another republican flushed away, prayers for the new POTUS.
YOU ARE READING
Poems from the Quill, by Olan L. Smith
Poetry"Poems from the Quill" is where I place current works that don't fall into other collections. It is here you will find obscure poems that range from constraint to free-verse. I began this collection as a contest entry, years ago, for what was then t...
