Answering the call from Charon,
For the mad king’s tongue spits.
The paladins arrived one by one
To the fury of angry and hateful
fits.
What maze befalls the citizens?
The track is a winding figure
eight.
Find the wordsmiths with sharp
pens.
Look to psychopomps to navigate.
For the waters are dark and rancorous
With a wild and foreboding twisted
turnaround.
The ship’s flippant rudder is completely
indecorous;
The notorious charlatan is
morbidly unsound.
One hundred days of turmoil and
rue.
The guidelines of decency and
respect erased.
The nation is in the hands of a
fool without a clue
Feeding on small minds entangled with
the idiot’s craze.
The noise and rumble in the airwaves
and on the streets
Portend trouble, upheaval and calls
for revolution.
The train to madness arrives with
nothing discrete.
Listen, the whistle sounds off in
a paroxysm of rejection.
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