Signs of the Times

Because we couldn’t stand

That barking, nasal voice,

The time had finally come for us

To make a drastic choice.

 

We put it to a vote

And swore that we’d be bound

By a super majority of one—

And so turned off the sound,

 

But then we quickly learned

How wrong a vote can be

Because those gestures were still there,

For all the world to see.

 

There’s the shoot, the loop,

The spin, the drop, the x—

But wait, there’s more!

He does the point,

The headline, too,

And the chop for an encore.

There’s the hop, the claw,

The fling, the swirl, the dive,

The curlicue,

And though you’re sure you’ve seen enough,

There’s seventy-four more to do!

 

And so we sit and stare.

It’s overwhelming, though.

It’s Mussolini mixed with bits

From mime Marcel Marceau.

 

And all the while we watch

Those facial muscles clench,

We think that Trump reminds us of

A shark who’s learning French.

 

And yet we wonder, too—

And this thought seems to linger—

If, in that endless show of hands,

He’s giving us all the finger?

 

There’s the rocket, cuffs,

Thumbs up and fist,

The forehead and the phone,

The WTF, the throw it out,

And, of course, the leave it alone.

There’s the loser L,

The neon sign,

To name a very few,

But underneath, we’ve come to think

The message is F.U.!

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