Your mouth is on the button, ready
to take a shot at anything
you see, that flags up
in the tiny mind held up
by small hands, business like attire,
small orange sun
glowing hot and stare mad cold with bluster
and rhetoric, good for nothing
but column inches and inches and inches,
diminutive boy, slow to realise
that the shit is not in some far off country,
not in a hole created by mortar
or bomb, or bullet, or lie,
but in your own back yard, Commander
and chief; a shithole, just another fancy
word, dressed up, wearing slightly
better clothes, but still no better
than the Cess Pit you
preside over, barker style…White House in fear
roll up, roll up, come one, come all,
see the sh*t ho*e speak.
Ian D. Hall 2018