THE OTHER GUY
Oh how we hate
the bald-faced liar
unless
he's our guy,
winking at us like
a predator in a bar,
just
before he sets
his sights on the conquest
of the night.
Then that
blue dressed girl
is a roundish slut,
or the electorate too
unwashed to be touched.
Perhaps
the problem is us.
Our moral fiber twisted
like a DNA strand,
adaptable to the demands
of our opinion.
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