[I entered an earlier version of this acrostic in Spectator competition 2990, A to P]
As Air Force One banks, what he sees is ash
Below, across the States. And still there billow
Clouds miles high; so scarcely have skies cleared,
Day upon day. The millions doomed to die
Exposed to toxic air, as lava-bombs explode,
Flee futilely. The President may fly,
Give speeches (bold assurance!), declaim grief:
How, though, can he hold out a solid hope?
If U.S. heartland’s now a pit of ire,
Just who still trusts in Trump? - A barren jest.
Killing winds choke countryfolk and kine.
Long-known, Yellowstone’s strained lava-dome -
Made open sore now - gushes; roaring, masks
News radioed to President in flight: more noise
Of spreading riots. “Call the Army off!
Police too. Useless... Land! Mexico, please.”
|