When the Cheeto Dust Falls

When the Cheeto dust falls, fleecing everything in orange tinge, that’s when we’ll feel the full force of this punched-up punchline and suffocate with cringe

Harrrr harrrr hurrrrrr

Throw the baby out with his father… we’ll stay here, high and spinning, above the rusted water… and we’ll ALWAYS land on the same sides
with the leeches, roaches and the fattened flesh flies

Putting his retromechanisms in place
while wearing the industrialist’s sagging face
He’s a spray on man with a shellac tan
Hop in his van, he’ll do what he must but not what he can
and get away with

And his praises
ye shall sing
like a squeal
like a shriek
like a wail at a funeral through a cartoon beak

He’s the secret weapon,
the scummed mummer
burying the bar so far under

Using the word nigger for comedic effect
never loses impact
the older, dumber or more terracotta he gets

He could feed a village
with the contents of his trash
But it takes a REAL whore
to pop his chivalrous gash

Fostering PTSD
Impact Megalodon and His STDs
A shit show to the dome
Plausible denial for collateral damage
in a lighthearted tone

A storied beefer with a trophy queefer
He’s an oil-slicked puddle, nothing deeper

Slapping on labels, swallowing ozone
He’s flocked with boogers
Thumbing through his index
of top tier hookers
as splintered as a hoary old bone

He was never taught to spot beauty
that isn’t pornographic
He’s financially trained to take
He can only cum if he’s bombing your carpet…
or if it’s a gunpoint rape

A dereliction of executive duties
A down and dirty solution:
his regressive social contribution
to your misguided protest and silly free speech notions

Jokes legislated into mandate on the clown crusted bell-tip of Watergate.
Those were the days:
pratfalls to executive positions in a cocaine haze
They’ll devour each other for a taste of the bait
at the end of the maze: the profligate snake

His industries conceived:
wigs to pull your hair out
balms that dry your lips
Fingernails that cause your hands to rot out
Lotions and powders to yield polyps
Corrosive fumes that rot your grout
Light bulbs which, as soon as they’re screwed in, burn out
Warranting an endless need
All for you, bitchums,

A talentless pool of the usual perverts
It’s a financial formula that for him always works

He knows how the money flows
He’s got you bouncing
And which way your hunger grows
On the low buy, high sell thing
Wooden pigs on a carousel
While he does what he does so well,
jive talking
ma belle, ma belle
On his kiss and tell thing
He didn’t like the smell of your thing, Ms. Ne’er do well
So he flushed you with cash
and sent you to hell

he’s stranger than a stranger
what’s he done, here, today?
a fucker, a soft knuckler
It’s free TV
The best TV
but, hey…
you’ll pay, babes…
you’ll pay
You’ll see

Retroenemation 1, graphite on paper, 1993 copyright GPD

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