It's Now Too Late, The A.I. Said

"These Are My Best Made-up Numbers YET!" by Herr D on Paint3d. Poem below by Shelob, with meter borrowed from poet famous for nonsense.-Shelob

The Wall For Us And The Harbinger, by Shelob

 It's now too late, calculations say, to ask if he is crazed.

His tariffs and his budget cuts (driving business leaders nuts)

Our economics blazed.

And why set our world afire? Why does he seem unfazed?

Why does he call the bad the best? His monkeys have been raised

From out the monkey house and handed guns and purses.

He jails some of our labor, turns neighbor onto neighbor,

And says 'bigly' and worse-s.

Where true g-men said 'no comment,' his utter lies and curses.

Where charity fought sickness, now they're needing bigger hearses.

He wanted loyal spokesmen, hired three women that are blonde;

His blondes addressed the press now pressed, 

The 'facts' now well beyond

A semblance of reality for anyone that's fond

Of U.S.' way, or justice, having truth as one's own bond.

He's felt dismay religion's way--they do not pray to him

That bishops check a president-

Ial lie or act or whim.

We needn't paint him as a saint or seraphim.

He steps on kneelers blindly 'cause he isn't very slim.

Our 'dear leader''s not the only source of pain:

He's hootin' Putin's putain, 

And wants rocks from the Ukraine.

He wants to ride both far and wide aboard a golden plane.

All those not turned against him? Liars, foolish, or insane.

So is he done with jabber-talk? Him we wouldn't want to teach

The vagaries of English. The plague of gibberish

That he thinks make a speech

He thinks his brand is Wonderland or maybe that's the beach

He will retire to--extradition's out of reach.