The Lying Breeze

His ugly tongue sends the lying breeze
Dreamed from his hate-filled fantasy,
Like the vomit wretched while on his knees.
Awful, stinky stuff, its odor sits listlessly,
As the drifting fog o’er a restless sea
When it creeps in o’er the glistening trees.

His lib’ral lies come from his bartered soul
Like the mangled skunk of road kill pun
On the gray black road of a paying toll,
Or the lackey libs on their dying run,
When the gloom of their hate becomes undone,
And the spear of the truth starts to roll.

And this truth sings out from the lips of mine
Burning your buttes like a hot fire set
In Satan’s own place for his lib’ral shrine,
Or the costly wounds from a losing bet,
Or the empty heart of a lib’ral’s regret
With the phony words of a lib’ral whine.