POEM: Big beautiful mess

My thoughts as interpreted by AI:

He struts like a king with a Diet Coke crown, but he’s tantrum and Twitter and always let down. By “facts,” “by truth,” by grown-up tone — he talks like a bully with a megaphone.

Says “many people” but never says who (just rich guys in golf pants nodding, “so true”!) He calls it a win, that “big beautiful tax,” but it’s yachts for the top and the rest of us cracks.

He’s orange theatrics and gold-plated grudge, a playground tyrant who made himself judge. Throws nicknames like dodgeballs, then runs for the gate. He’s power in pampers, addicted to hate. 

He sells us a circus and calls it “the best,” while selling your grandma’s Medicare to the rest. 

He builds up a wall, then bills us the bricks, while bragging and whining and pulling cheap tricks.

No mug for me — I’m not sipping that brew, I like my truth straight, no Mar-a-Lago-view. 

He says he’s for workers but cuts their last rope, then gaslights the hurt with a snicker and “hope.” 

So take your “great again” bluster and run. You’re not fooling the many, just pleasing the one. 

We see through the puff, the bling, and the tweet. Your empire’s a joke and it smells of deceit.

MARSHA BECKER

Dalton Gardens