Trumpery

E

ffrontery that can only find resolution in a crown,
the golden points of the sun almost as blinding as the orange-rind
complexion befitting a god, instead of constitutional
contentment with a coequal branch beholden to the populace.
No, only the aureate heft of majesty accords the trumpery
spewing forth from a bedrock of narcissism,
a grandiose B-grade actor aspiring a Dear Leader role.
Now in the last season of a national reality show
with tanking ratings, the proverbial poultry are bedding down,
and when this pompous produce loses its adulatory culture,
blemishes will balloon from a rotten coring into a tantrum
of some magnitude, inconsolable; dockets circle the wounded—
deposed before coronation, a liege mired in litigation.
Relegated to the company of Buchanan and Johnson,
the disenchanted mogul will mumble on about fake history.

*[ WSB ].