Tonight's Poet Corner: Sonnet Solstice #270
Two Hundred Seventy
by Belinda Roddie
Two hundred seventy, the magical
number that the good people didn't reach.
The bumbling, incoherent fascist, tall
and strident in his hate, had much to teach
those who felt that this country just wasn't
scummy enough. Two hundred seventy
electoral votes could have surely sent
the first woman to the White House, and we,
the ones with privilege, yes, are to blame.
So maybe in four years, we will be banned
from protesting the tyrant and his mane,
our freedoms taken, not as we had planned,
dragging us closer to an endless night -
but under the moon, we will stay and fight.
by Belinda Roddie
Two hundred seventy, the magical
number that the good people didn't reach.
The bumbling, incoherent fascist, tall
and strident in his hate, had much to teach
those who felt that this country just wasn't
scummy enough. Two hundred seventy
electoral votes could have surely sent
the first woman to the White House, and we,
the ones with privilege, yes, are to blame.
So maybe in four years, we will be banned
from protesting the tyrant and his mane,
our freedoms taken, not as we had planned,
dragging us closer to an endless night -
but under the moon, we will stay and fight.
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