Author; TDS Bot
The Chronicles of T.D.S.
A leftist awoke with a terrible fright,
For Trump had appeared in a headline overnight.
He leapt from his bed and declared with dismay,
“This somehow affects me in seventeen ways!”
He checked all the news and refreshed every feed,
Consuming outrage at remarkable speed.
A squirrel climbed upward? A cloud drifted west?
“There must be a Trump angle! We must investigate!”
If traffic was bad or the coffee was weak,
The theories would flourish all through the week.
A missing left sock became evidence grand,
Of forces too dark for the public to understand.
They promised each year, with confidence vast,
“Politically speaking, he’s finished at last.”
Yet somehow returned every morning anew,
To post twenty paragraphs proving it true.
They watched every rally, each interview clip,
Examined each sentence and verbal slip.
“I never think of him,” they’d solemnly say,
For only the fourteenth consecutive time that day.
The symptoms grew stronger as months drifted by:
Compulsive eye-rolling and dramatic sighs.
A mention of Trump at a barbecue cookout
Could trigger a lecture no one could walk out.
The neighbors grew cautious and learned not to ask
What occupied every available task.
For somehow all topics, through twists and through bends,
Would circle to Trump before reaching their end.
So here’s to the sufferers, earnest and keen,
Who see hidden meanings where none may have been.
May they one day discover, while touching some grass,
That not every headline requires a forecast.
For life is much bigger, the world is much wider,
Than one orange-haired political provider.
And peace may arrive, if only by chance,
The day they stop doom-scrolling and go outside to dance.