Forgive me my anagrams but I see the arrogant phrase ‘enlightened Americans’ can be easily transformed to ‘reenlightened maniacs’ which is far more suitable for such people. And ‘woman of color’ (I hate such stupid terms) can become:

Room clown oaf Crown Mao fool AOC moron wolf oof normal cow

USA citizens of all sorts were threatened by the prospect of a clown like Kamala in charge. I guess the lady posting her deep seated hatred of all the “ignorant, uneducated, garbage humans” might hate herself deeply. Many such people have been severely hurt in the past, makes them strike out. Still, I looked at that phrase and thought ‘I wonder…..hmm, there is no ‘p’ or ‘l’ in there so no republicans. What about Democrats? Oh yes, so there is!’

A tan bureau gang unhinged democrats

Harris encaged dung tube Guantanamo

From: https://alphaandomegacloud.wordpress.com/

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Jean ‘Binta’ Breeze is a popular Jamaican Dub poet and storyteller

Really Graceful

Oh chica of New England snows!
Fair tropical Latina rose;
Green palms, of some warm distant clime
Shine from your eyes in wintertime.

Thy childhood in that tropic place,
Hath blessed thee with a dusky grace;
And all your pre-Columbian past
Must winter’s slushy chill outlast.

The rushing cars who make their way
Insult you with a frigid spray;
As from some humble task you wait
To catch the bus and change your fate.

Thy beauty, late transplanted, glows
To melt these white midwinter snows;
And cumbias from some southern zone
Sound from your soul with pulsing tone.

Your Christian heart, in solitude,
Has all our frozen land imbued;
America’s own breadth and length—
With campesina faith and strength.

❄  I wanted to rewrite a favorite poem:

Oh fairest of the rural maids!
Thy birth was in the forest shades;
Green boughs, and glimpses of the sky,
Were all that met thine infant eye. 

Thy sports, thy wanderings, when a child,
Were even in the sylvan wild;
And all the beauty of the place
Is in thy heart and on thy face. 

The twilight of the trees and rocks
Is in the light shade of thy locks;
Thy step is as the wind, that weaves
Its playful way among the leaves. 

Thine eyes are springs, in whose serene
And silent waters heaven is seen;
Their lashes are the herbs that look
On their young figures in the brook. 

The forest depths, by foot unpressed,
Are not more sinless than thy breast;
The holy peace, that fills the air
Of those calm solitudes, is there.

William Cullen Bryant (1794—1878)