Burn-Downed Bushes of American Elections

[GDelmarRatliff]

Burn-Downed Bushes of American Elections

i do never do, nor do i do
discuss the politics of, with anyone.
it fosters underneath wealth, a formation
i need no access to

burn bitch-kingdom, burn.
like the white witch under her ruin of stone
she justifies her ballot card,
punch in and punch out.

the credit she gains is what it is
without a doubt stained in, cum, clout.
and out the front door into the son, she runs;
his red milk on her purple lips.

this great wide smile and vote—<br>the confidence in america’s right
and in reich she marches high kicking on.
from here, no one denounced.

the empire pendulum is hot,
her madness struggles to recover,
these days of conjecture maneuver to a close;
i am not subject to such changes.

four years will rote away
with price tags and faces she cannot buy.
the pulpits will all be empty cold,
her tithes waiver broke, asunder.

is that god she owes you to?
no, it is christ, anti and building his hell.
you sit back and whip off white spills
but here is memory, the remains.

tomorrow after son-set, tomorrow i may rise.


G Delmar Ratliff