Mr. Unpresident

They call him Mr. President.
A title so dignifying
For office so high,
And anyone who occupies it must be dignifying
And high also.

So it had been, in years before,
The title its dignity sustained,
The bearers so fitting, their demeanors so dainty;
In esteem higher than their names held them the office.

The roads they trod love overlaid,
The rays of their eyes compassion sparked,
The words from their mouths calming as friendly breeze,
And the air they exhaled, peace tinged
Like blood and water.

But now, in the present, the presidency indignity rapes,
Swinging as faulty pendulum backward and forward
having no point of equilibrium, therefore hanging down.
And strange wind digs wide cracks on its fortresses,

The presidency bared to foreign teeth; warring canines lurk,
As the cold hands of narcissism, hatred by the throat chokes,
And its tottering bones sawed by lies, corruption, inhumanity,
While the occupier jingles war songs like unhelmeted centurion.

Oh, America, America, great America, brighter than glitters!
Although in years gone-by; but now,
A stranger on your table sits
With eyes blazing of fire
And mouth with slimy tongue of smokes,
Wherefrom storms arise; a seething pail-of-hell.
Spewing unrepentantly from your table vile;
Concoctions that ruin at the heart of your sacredness.

They call him Mr. President, for the crown is irreducible,
But Mr. 'Unpresident' he is, for the crown he drags in the mud,
He with uncanny brutality dismantles your sacred oaths,
And your peace he trades for a pot of apocalypse.