When Trump swears, “God-damn-it, I’m made of truth,”
His chumps believe him, parsing reams of lies;
What yokels won’t revolt when called uncouth,
In terror that fate judges them loser guys?
And so befuddlement makes them doubly stung,
Awash with ‘immigrant’ job-thieving stress,
Easy marks to hustlers’ false-speaking tongues —
On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed.
But what corrupt elite proves Trump unjust?
Who rails at clannish, white supremacy robed?
With hopeless desperation “in Trump we trust:
“Ain’t he pure, like driven snow, self-bankrolled?”
Thus know-nothings rage against powers-that-be,
“I’ll make you great” yells Donald Svengali.
Shakespeare, Sonnet 138
When my love swears that she is made of truth,
I do believe her, though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutored youth,
Unlearnèd in the world’s false subtleties.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although she knows my days are past the best,
Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue:
On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed.
But wherefore says she not she is unjust?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
Oh, love’s best habit is in seeming trust,
And age in love loves not to have years told.
Therefore I lie with her and she with me,
And in our faults by lies we flattered be.
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