It’s that demon ol’ MAGA won’t admit.

So we gotta talk about stagflation—
what Donny learned from Jimmy Carter stuck
because of Trump‘s avoidable mistakes.

Things are getting worse. Gas prices went up
forty-two percent since the president
attacked Iran. Diesel prices went up
forty-five percent since the president attacked Iran. The fertilizer price
went up thirty to seventy percent
depending on the item since ol’ Trump
attacked Iran. Raw plastics jetted up
forty percent since Trump attacked Iran.

I don’t know why, but politicians think
war helps us escape economic woes.
It’s stupid. We should’ve learned but didn’t.

It’s that demon ol’ MAGA won’t admit.

So we gotta talk about stagflation—
what Donny learned from Jimmy Carter stuck
because of Trump‘s avoidable mistakes.

So yeah, all the pandemic years were bad
under dumpster Trump and ol’ sleepy Joe,
but now the situation’s grown way worse
with Trump sleeping with his hand on the stick
as if he’s doing it all on purpose because no one is this kind of stupid.

Donny is losing—
with Americans he falls short.
Legislatures refuse ‘im.

Donny is losing,
because he defies the court.

Note: if you didn’t know, a lot of Donald Trump supporters are still trying to deflect back to Biden and how they felt he was a failure of a president compared to their superhero, Donald Trump. This poem addresses that. And yes, this was in response to a particular person named John.

Lee is Trump‘s Twitter goon.
A brawler a slugger,
all out spit-throwing goon,
and tough guy enforcer.
A good old Mormon boy.
A good old mama’s boy.
Takes the fight right to the Dems
and grabs them by the throat.
Lee is Trump‘s Twitter goon—
Donny‘s heavy hitter.

My Mormon marvel,
an eighteen fourties super-star,
marched through dust and dawn,
a fearless fighter,
firm in faith and fact,
with stick and slug
and stout old wrestler’s brawn,
he met all comers,
never turning back.
where Mike Lee lies,
my lowborn hero stood,
his speech stayed steady,
straight, and free from guile,
he chose the truth
when lesser leaders would
seek shelter in the shade
of shame and smile.

Donald Trump’s got a boy
by the name of Mike Lee.
Oh yeah, Trump’s got a boy—
goes by the name, Mike Lee.
A good old Mormon boy.
A good old mama’s boy.
He deflects, misdirects,
and sometimes outright lies.
So yeah, Trump‘s got him a boy:
a bald thug named Mike Lee.

But you and I, we just don’t have the time.
We got jobs and responsibilities:
our families, bills, and groceries stacking up
can’t take a break to pay him any mind.
We’re Americans; we’re always working.

It’s what two hundred fifty years looks like.

But yeah, Trump wants to be your birthday boy,
out shouting for attention—yeah, that’s him:
just gotta have the best cable ratings.

Grandpa worked when the unions still held fast.
My pop lived his whole life as a soldier.
I served, then worked each day to raise my kids.
Now their kids grow up bright, yet poorer still
while unions fade and government looks away.

That’s right, your daddy and your grandpa too.
And yeah, your mama and your grandma too.
But now birthday boy wants to divide you
and me from our neighbors to look at him.

It’s what two hundred fifty years looks like.

But yeah, Trump wants to be your birthday boy,
out waving for attention—yeah, that’s him:
just gotta have the best follower count.

Yeah, grandpa was a lifelong union man,
and voted Democrat through lean hard years.
Daddy’s Army for life and backed the right,
remembering Vietnam War hatred.
I vote for neighbors, children, and what hurts.
Birthday boy wants us to just follow him.
I’m an American. I can’t vote like that.

A war begins with easy words, 
with flags all bright unfurled, 
but it’s hard to stop rolling steel 
once it shakes our metal world.

Trump got us stuck in a forever war, 
hear iron engines cry, tankers drift 
through smoke, bombers scream 
through the sky. Steel wheels 
turning, turning still, grinding rails, 
once furnace doors swing wide, 
peace always begins to fail.

The Strait of Hormuz waits at night 
it’s gates hold the line, sea freighters 
drift like ghost lit logs through fog 
and oil and brine. Radio men tap 
claims there’s peace close at hand, 
diplomats signed terms with Iran.
Iranian ministers speak through 
shuttered gray rooms, of cease-fire 
agreements meant to end the war, 
lift the blockade, cool the guns, 
let trade routes breathe again, 
let cargo flood harbor mouths 
like long returning friends.

But rumors blow like cinders ahead 
of freight at night, no one knows 
if peace holds against furnace light.

Trump stuck us all in a forever war, 
hear iron engines cry, tankers drift 
through smoke, drones buzzing 
through midnight skies. Steel wheels 
turn, turn still, grind the rail, 
once furnace doors swing wide, 
peace plummets and fails.

Then the dawn of May twenty-fifth, 
came jets roaring overhead, refinery 
towers burning red, black smokes 
the dead. The Revolutionary Guard 
cried out, gunboats cut the waves, 
while Congress argued under lights 
that mumble like hollow graves.
Vietnam rides through the dark, 
Iraq burns the brain, Afghanistan’s 
old rotors rattle through the rain.

Trump got us stuck in a forever war, 
hear engines cry, choppers cross 
midnight clouds, red refinery skies. 
Steel wheels turn, turn still, nations 
strain and sway, once the iron train 
rolls south, it rarely stops that way.

Diesel smoke and signal lights, 
telegraphs and rain, once a nation 
feeds the fire, it rarely stops the train.