Giuliani, Sydney Powell, Patrick Byrne and Michael Flynn –
when it comes to “crazy,” these four clearly known to be all-in.
One December evening, going late into the hours wee,
this gang made their case: the Constitution could empower me
to confiscate machinery or rerun the election. That’s
because votes cast for me were switched to Biden by Nest thermostats.
Rather than dismiss these nuts, instead I chose to entertain
the theories they were floating… in comes Cipollone, to explain
their arguments were flawed, with all assertions lacking evidence.
Refusing to concede would be a first among our presidents,
and expletives took flight as this debate became unreal. These
rank promoters of conspiracy all questioned my team’s fealty.
Screaming, swearing, yelling – neither side was yielding approbation.
One group kept proclaiming fraud had taken hold across the nation.
Others said the die was cast, and I should bow out gracefully.
Each faction found the posture of the other bloc distasteful. Pleas
to snap back to reality were disregarded and dismissed.
My lawyers were “a bunch of pussies,” Rudy Giuliani hissed.
Both sides in this brawl droned on for hours; fury unabated.
(I served Swedish meatballs, but with appetites left far from sated.)
Powell, Flynn, Byrne, Rudy – all aligning with the right-wing fringe.
(A text sent out by Cassidy proclaimed: “the west wing is UNHINGED.”)
Baseless accusations, not backed up by facts; I was inclined
to lend them credence. Willfully or not – to truth I will be blind.
Sometime after midnight, all the players in this farce dispersed
and I was left alone with thoughts of all the grudges I had nursed.
Voices calm and rational had advocated for concession;
I instead blamed Congress, urging Proud Boys to disrupt their session.
Faced with making choices – as a man, or as a little child –
I sent out a tweet, inciting chaos: “Be there, will be wild.”
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