He sells a prescription,
a medical fiction
that can't really cure our ills.
It comes from no science,
is but an appliance
of one who won't care whom he kills,
who hopes it distracts
from disquieting facts
about how he's exerting his will.
This fells his proponents
much more than opponents,
yet most of them vote for him still.
Copyright ©2020, Paul H. Harder II
This poem is licensed under a Creative Commons
BY-NC-ND 4.0 License.
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