Slowly in, the MAGATS crawl...
Slowly in, the MAGATS crawl
Fetid COVID fills the hall.
Tiki torches cast a pall
o'er swastikas on the wall.
Builders of the giant stage
thought not of the tyrant's age.
On the ramp to that altar,
Dotard's feet drag and falter.
Up the ramp the sicko pants,
'Huzzah!' cry the sycophants.
MAGATS are a motley crew,
morals rare and brain cells few.
Bikers under helmet pickles
stumble from their motorcycles.
Trucker jerkles drive in circles,
no direction and no purpose.
Meth crazed groupies harbor hope,
here today they might get groped.
At the mic, the traitor scowls,
then begins to flap his jowls.
Beady pink eyes cast baleful glare
upon the huddled asses there.
Endless blather, no decorum,
soon enough, he starts to bore 'em.
But MAGATS, they are not fickle,
Evil words their fancies tickle.
-Alfred, Lord Tennis Shoes
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