Buzzard Puke Stinks
From a distance,
Up wind by chance,
You'll miss the smell,
Of this turkey from hell.
Watch him soaring in the air.
One would think he has no care.
He feeds on carnage; filth and waste.
There's no telling about his pagan taste.
He's calling his brethren to encircle and feast,
On generosity of another who offers him peace.
Up close on the ground, you see him as he is,
Taking advantage of the circumstances.
In his ideology there's nothing new,
Shared with friends, that are few.
After his moment in the sun,
Clouds ‘ll gather. He'll run.
‘Tis his partisan Politics.
And his usual tricks.