The talk is senseless bullshit
from fibbing crowd of grifters,
mostly trolls and fawning schemers,
never silent, mostly shunned.

They bring choler to you, me,
ply with lies and rambling turd-prates…
they suck on body [politic] like leeches,
spin tales of brayed duplic’ty.
It ain’t at all sweet, their odor;
in our rhinal niche it’s stinging.
Boring, barking brays…appalling crew.
They fib, ’cause move their lips.

In DC these are these clowns, haughty,
ranting mostly pure noise.
Cant and bullshit no one swallows
except their crime coterie.
These wretched fibbers hide perks
and mound up lots of money,
scarfed green from a ripoff
of the riches that they’ve mined.

Spineless pussy nitwits,
bums grabbing, mooching, filching.
Graft and taking on their menu;
partners in crime, stealing, grifting.

A name is apt: “indictees”…
slam them, writhing, in a cell.
We know we cannot believe ’em;
they’re such a mendacious band.
Sick failures bray duplic’ty.
No sweetness in their pre-ordure…
a non-silent, deadly stinking.

Whining perp-shill filchers,
bums grafting, duping, fibbin’ .
And you want ’em in a venue
where there’s hard time—i.e., prison.