When the Trump Blows
Oh, not again, the voices sigh,
The star-spangled banner hangs heavy in the sky.
The 47th dawns, his name the same,
Is this a new chapter, or a replay of blame?
What will he do? The whispers collide—
Some see a savior, others run and hide.
Will it fulfill what prophets foretell,
Or touch the hearts of those wishing him well?
Is he just a man, flesh and bone,
Or a trumpet that wails on a doom-filled tone?
Watch out, O world! The end might be near,
Or is it just noise, another four-year?
Will God’s hand descend through the clouds,
Or is this just politics wrapped in shrouds?
Whatever will be, we can’t yet discern.
Only time will tell which bridge will burn.
How can a man, with his trials in court,
Claim a throne some wish to thwart?
Is this democracy, or a kingdom’s tale,
Where peasants bow and justice pales?
Will his rule lift us high, make us strong,
Or does his song clang harsh and wrong?
A nation of hope, or one on its knees—
His trumpet calls, echoing seas.
Forever Trump, an eternal fate?
Or will the tides turn, it’s not too late?
To destroy or restore, to divide or unite,
His horn beckons day, yet looms the night.
When the trumpet blows, heed the sound,
For in its echo, truths abound.
A king, a horn, a president's reign—
Is it triumph, or is it pain?
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