In the haze of the smoke and the whiff of the breeze,
Koan sits and contemplates life, on his knees.
The world has turned strange, in a blink of a year,
As Chief Trump, from the Maga tribe, now draws near.
His tribe of Marxist Wokists, with ideals so grand,
Now face a new foe they can't quite withstand.
With a mandate of power, so loud and so brash,
Trump leads them through turmoil, a clash after clash.
Koan, the hippy with a mind full of dreams,
Believes in free education, in life’s flowing streams.
PhDs for all, no barriers to climb,
And health care for free, to cure every crime.
Yet the Maga tribe laughs, and they sneer at his plan,
For they believe in the dollar, in a man to stand.
While Koan gambles his way through each high-stakes game,
He’s happiest when beating their bluffing shame.
His daughter, the lawyer, so sharp and so bright,
His son-in-law’s wisdom a beacon of light.
They fight for the future, with knowledge and might,
But Koan’s a dreamer, lost in the night.
His past is a legacy, a testament true,
State plans and services, a life to renew.
But now, in the air, there's a tension that hums,
As the Chief of the Maga tribe eagerly drums.
The next four years stretch out, dark and unknown,
Koan’s heart aches as his seeds are overthrown.
Yet in his own soul, there’s a flicker of hope,
As he puffs on his joint, in the haze he will cope.
For Koan knows deep, in the stillness of night,
That ideals may be crushed, but they’re never out of sight.
In a world full of chaos, he’ll keep holding the line,
And if he beats them at poker, well, that’s just divine. |
