You Are Scheduled for the Die-off

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NOTE: I wrote this poem a full year before the COVID-19 pandemic. Downright prophetic, if you ask me...

  

“The oddity in all this is the people Trump despises most, love him the most. The people who are voting for Trump, for the most part… He wouldn’t even let them in a fucking hotel. He’d be disgusted by them.” -- Howard Stern


You with your MAGA hat,
your stars and bars flying,
your locked and loaded Bible.
Wake up. Look around.
You are scheduled for the die-off.
Ship the Blacks to Africa,
the Mexicans to camps,
send Gays for conversion.
But what’s the plan for you?
Wake up. Look around.
You are scheduled for the die-off.
Your Holy #POTUS Trump
knows climate change is real,
and coal and oil bring it.
He’s not saving your job.
He’s plotting your murder.
Wake up. Look around.
You are scheduled for the die-off.
When all the Blacks are gone,
the brown folk, the queers,
and all the Jews and Muslims,
that leaves only rich and poor.
And, Hoss – you ain’t rich.
They’re already building
robots to replace you.
Wake up. Look around.
You are scheduled for the die-off.
There are only two ways
this story can end.
The rich take it all,
or the poor take it back.
Believe me, Trump remembers
which group you belong to.
You’re digging your own grave.
Your white skin won’t save you.
It’s only a matter of time.
Wake up. Look around.
You are scheduled for the die-off.



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