The End of the End
By David Lawrence
I went for a walk during the winter cold in just my pajamas. I was looking for the end. Not the beginning of the end but the end of the end in the middle of introspection. Hope had failed me like a Mexican jumping bean that had lost its jump. The fast were no longer furious. Not as bloody as Benghazi but just as falsely sincere as Obama’s rhetoric. I found romance in the icy fingers of the wind. I found hopelessness in the President of the United States. And then Obama was there in a black raincoat like Dylan Klebold. He was strapped with a gun as he smiled madly and bit the end of his words that tasted like a teleprompter. The rap group, Onyx, wanted to set the choir on fire. Obama wants to lead from behind like gay marriage. Everything against us, nothing for us, he is the opposite of our history in a champagne flute filled with grape juice. Failure doesn’t often come in such pretentious vases. He is a flower of our own destruction. He is what happens when nothing happens except a spade undercutting sod. Will his eventual death be as mysterious as his birth certificate? Will they someday bury him with a teleprompter on his headstone?
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