The Cold, Desserted Street: A Trump Administration Report

The road is cold and lonely,

The street is chill and bare,

And the temperature is cold

On the abandoned thoroughfare. 

The avenue’s deserted

And the frost clings to my hair

As I concisely summarize

That ice is all that’s present there.

The lane’s devoid of people

And our breath hangs in the air.

The thermometer’s relative lowness

Means to be outside few apparently dare.

The cul-de-sac is frigid

And devoid of folk, I swear.

It’s frosted and filled with people

In such quantity as those whom about this poem still do care.


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