Don't Crown the Clown
He painted his smile
in shades of orange spite,
made a throne
out of broken truths
and broadcast static.
The crowd laughed
while the kingdom burned—
“at least he’s honest,”
they said,
as he juggled justice,
dropping it
for a standing ovation.
They mistook
noise for vision,
a tantrum
for revolution.
He said
Make America Great Again
like a preacher selling heaven,
and lit the match
that turned the country
into kindling.
But the trick
was never greatness—
it was greed,
rebranded,
threaded through a flag,
stitched into a red cap.
And with
bitter pride,
he smeared the past
onto the present
and called it legacy.
They cheered for the clown
while women’s bodies
were bartered for votes,
while justice closed its eyes
to the color of your skin.
Cheered
while he fed the rich
and called the hungry lazy,
cutting lifelines
with a joker smile.
Cheered
while workers begged,
while children starved,
while love was stripped of rights
and called a threat.
He didn’t fix the country—
he fractured it.
Split the sky down the middle
and called it freedom.
And now,
he’s drowning the rest
in noise and theater,
so we forget
who lit the fire.
We’ve read this playbook before—
dog-eared,
blood-worn,
foreign-printed,
but familiar
in every footnote.
The rise.
The march.
The scapegoat.
The silence.
He calls it showmanship.
I call it foreshadowing.
History doesn’t repeat—
it dresses in drag,
changes its accent,
and paints its face
for the crowd.
The crowd roared
for a past they never lived,
imagining power
without remembering
who paid for it.
But no—
don’t crown the clown.
Don’t give the stage
to the man
who turns spotlights
into searchlights.
No—
don’t crown the clown.
Don’t dress him in robes
stitched from fear.
He’s not the king.
He’s just the act
before the fall.
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