My favorite food is ketchup; I will pour it on my steak:
my desire for this red condiment is one I cannot slake.
On Thanksgiving, I will slather it upon my Butterball –
and I even placed some ketchup on the Oval Office wall.
I was angry at that moment – like a raging, roiling sea –
having heard Bill Barr renounce his feckless loyalty to me.
What’s the reason anyone would care about this sauce-y tidbit?
It provided quite an insight as to where my ire and id sit.
Now, the context for unearthing this unseemly revelation
was as part of an attempt to learn the risk I’d placed our nation
at by stubbornly insisting the election had been purloined;
my persistence ever-tougher, like a far-too-well-done sirloin.
It’s alleged I knew that weapons were by some folks being toted
at the rally staged to claim that those who’d fraudulently voted
in the previous election shouldn’t have their ballots counted.
(An attempted siege of Congress this mob subsequently mounted.)
The young woman who provided this alarming testimony
was denounced by me quite loudly as a fake, bad news, a phony.
While I claimed I barely knew her, and refuted her assessment,
just a few stans backed me up – and now I’m wondering where the rest went?
I’ll deny, deny, deny – akin to Michael Flynn’s strange answer
of the Fifth, the Fifth, the Fifth regarding power’s peaceful transfer.
Now there’s rumors I am rushing to declare my latest bid:
it’s a straight line to my ego from my wild, impulsive id.