He sips from the vine of the liberal lie
Not once, not twice but each day at dawn.
Each lie-filled cup he drinks to get by,
Rationalizing the reality that’s long gone.
When the final day comes he’ll look for shade,
The heat burning hotter as he makes his way.
But he’ll find no relief from the hell he’s made,
Crying and begging by the end of the day.
He has no regard for the babes he’s done,
Claiming each one is a mass for the bin.
They’re real and human this ain’t a pun.
He’s murdering children, the liberal sin.
When autumn comes forth in his sorry life,
I hope they scream loudly in his jaundiced ears.
I hope he sees visions of the babies he’s knifed.
As he slowly realizes he’s stolen their years.
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