A poem

[Pastor Fireball]

He sits in a room of broken lives
Haunted by schemes and cheated wives
Doddering, cold and mad as hell
He can sit and glare but cannot yell

He folds himself into a shrunken pose
Too old and feeble to stop the doze
He hates the judge and he hates the case
And he hates the rules that keep him in his place

The fat frumpy golfer is a weak-kneed man
With weird fake hair and a deep fake tan
He's desperate and angry, and doesn't sleep well
So he rants in the hall like a clanging bell

He just wants love, approval and power
But his style is dishonest, toxic and sour
The despots and strongmen play him the fool
They laugh and point at the Russian tool

He lusts for his daughter, his wife's not a fan
Of the dishonest, repugnant, bullying baby-man
So he sits alone in the cold as they repeat his lies
In his baggy blue suit and his long red ties

Smaller and smaller the beta-male appears
Powerless and silent, steeped in fears
His money, title and self-made fame
Are now a poison--a poison with his name