You simply don’t get this thing called real,
But then you’re a liberal and you never will.
The lies you tell proves your lack of skill,
Proving once more, the truth you can’t fulfill.
What is it that you see in your ideal?
A lying fraud with hate-filled zeal?
For such low standards oft reveal
The workings of an unbalanced wheel.
What is it that makes you conceal
When you are wrong in all you deal?
When you sit down to eat a meal
Do you call it steak when it’s really veal?
You send me words of hate surreal
Without regard to our shared name Hill.
You sit up high there in podunkville,
Playing king with your words so shrill.
The lies you spread are your Achilles’ heel
The truth like an arrow will make you ill
Hitting you hard and making you kneel
The end result of your words’ puerile
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