Note: see below if you missed this epic event on breakthrough “weave” advances.
A vampire felon needs no candor,
When virulent brews ooze rancor;
Nothing impedes his latest excess:
Rehashing bunk with comic BS.
No logic fits this fool’s rambling,
A brainiac’s imbecile sham-bling;
This fraudster plunges in, without peers,
Want blatant proof? Listen to your ears.
The jokester’s scam act is faking it,
A classic word salad counterfeit.
“I never ramble, I only ‘weave,’”
Thus doubling down ways to deceive.
Since routine feigning is not enough,
His best moves, he says, are off the cuff;
Not rambling means Trump really “weaves,”
Like sleazy drivel loses its sleaze.
Invoking his “like English prof” friends,
Endless bullshitting knows no ends:
So Trump’s our literary genius,
A dunce trying to sound ingenious.
As former English teacher, I gag
At the garbage-spewing scalawag;
Who but the world’s purveyor of lies
Disgorges the least credible disguise?
Lies upon lies kill rational discourse,
A wicked, mendacious tour de force.
Lies on lies on lies are still worse,
A cancer feeding all that’s perverse.
So when haunted by failing cognition,
Fall back on goofball ammunition.
To conceal rambling with a sham boast
Is dumber than the dumbest fence post.
What else to do when losing your mind?
Make bullshit your stand-in mock shrine.
What options for the progressive senile—
Just fake it like a cornered juvenile?
Garbled “weaves” fit no state of the art,
Like circling lipstick ‘round a pig’s fart;
So watch Trump’s brain go full slipshod
Derangement hoisted on its own petard.
Critics call hilarious BS on Donald Trump’s new brag about his speeches
At a campaign rally in Pennsylvania, on Friday, Trump declared:
You know, I do the weave. You know what the weave is? I’ll talk about like nine different things, and they all come back brilliantly together and it’s like, and friends of mine that are, like, English professors, they say, ‘It’s the most brilliant thing I’ve ever seen.’
Right, forget Shakespeare or James Joyce, even Stephen King or Rudyard Kipling. Gosh, that would deserve a Nobel Prize in literature for the wayward weaver full of himself. Of course with double “likes” and no provable English professor friends, the evidence turns on itself, displaying only more rambling nonsense.
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