Hey there y’all.

Jest thought I would tell you what I been up to since last letter from Hickry Holler.

Well they done did it. Them damn federlz done chased his orange hide right outten the county. I shore was hopin’ old Donald might jest string’em along for a bit, you know, then tree their squirrel and pepper their hide with buckshot. Why I’d have sent him a dollar or two jest to open a few of them SEALED INDICTMENTS that that internet preacher man and Q told me wuz waitin’for them deep state devils. But it all come down to less than a hill of beans. Lord A’mighty, now we got a downright FAKE Prezident in the house. Old Jobiden got hisself a shore mess on his hands, I’ll own you that. And his V.P. is almost as purty as Melania, but heck if I know how to pronounce her name. Carmela something . . .
Anyway, me and the missus is still hunkered down in the cabin, waitin’ fer the dang coronation virus to subside. I heard them city folk is wearin’ masks and all but up here in the mountains we don’t worry too hard about that Chinee Bat Bronchitis.
(could be it warn’t even from eating bats it might be cooked up in a dang Communist moonshine still, we may never know but I done digressed forgive me Lord) Anyway, Jobiden and Miss Carmela Harrison is our new keen and quing and all us god-fearin’ Christian folk need to reespekt and pray a whole mess for them. Especially since old Jo B. is a cathlick and Carmela may even be one of them six-armed idol-worshippers you never know, cause she IS from Indiana or Kalifornia or someplace such.

Darkness slays the sun. Descending, he dies.
To hide his glowing countenance and wait;
Until his resurrection flood our skies
With promise of a greater solar state.

Oh mourn and weep, ye gaining shades of night;
An orange sunset lingers in the west.
The trumpet sobs a reveille; the light
Is dwindling on the presidential fest.
And cypresses are sighing in their shame
For Orange Man has forfeited his game.

The technocrats and leftists, as a mass
Opposed his righteous reign with godless spite.
Not once did they relent, but dogged his ass
In jackal-packs still slavering to bite.
And yet he is deplorably adored,
Nor friend nor foe politically bored.

Vile virtue-signalers (with none to show),
Despised all those who dared support his plan;
And prideful with each whining coward blow
Confirmed themselves inferiors to the man.
Pink feminists, at odds with all that’s right
Displayed themselves as pussies in the fight.

They could not stand the mention of his name.
The Globalists and other Euro-trash,
With Luciferian bankers, void of shame,
Resume their one-world plotting in a flash;
Preparing for re-set. (We wish they would
Let God reset them for their own damn good.)

So DRUMPF‘s Fourth Reich must sadly reach its end,
And Jared’s Nazi wife return her shoes.
Trump’s Völkisch warriors shall no more defend
Republics that weak RINOs all refuse;
And Milquetoast Mitt, and Bush, his parting hail
Grown tired of winning, longing yet to fail

My Einsatzgruppen uniform: no more
To wear the holy garment in my pride.
My shimmering hood and robe I now must store;
Well-pressed, I lay them tearfully aside.
My lynching rope I coil with loving care,
My Ku-Klux armband nevermore to wear.

Alas, the fascist father-figure goes;
His bigot minions, all my own, lament.
Misogynists and racists at the close
Have lost their weary way and all is spent.
He wasn’t dictatorial enough;
We all grew tired of winning. It was tough.

But wait; a zephyr stirs the orange grove.
The dusk has not yet sighed its final breath:
Once more a scent of citrus wafts above . . .
Twas’ premature, their festival of death.
Then TRUMP arises, grinning, from the bier
And all who who wished him gone recoil in fear.

Fresh horror now the adversaries sweeps;
The trembling crypts foreshadow his rebirth.
Progressive politics despairs and weeps
While liberal dread supplants their vengeful mirth.
Then Donald rises, leering like a ghost
To fill with panic every heartless host . . .

Mere hopium, this horror-movie plot.
It looked like he might pull it off— but no.
Now darkness teaches light what it is not
And half the nation jeers at him to go.
Healing urged—but fake. Polarization
Shall characterize our waning nation.

Hopes of resurrection vanish with night.
The scapegoat’s legions waken from the dream
To seek nocturnal solace from the fight:
The tepid normie water’s middle stream.
And Q-tard numerologists learn code.
(The rest of us just wonder what we’re owed.)

Saint Orange must diminish, half impeached;
And sunset velvet now becomes his hue.
The ballot urns of Georgia never reached;
Our judges sat to stifle what we knew.
The monoparty’s monkeys steal the show;
His puppet masters hiss him. Let him go.

And Dixie’s juiceless orchards sing his dirge.
The willows hang their boughs in leafless grief . . .
Disgust for all the traitors starts to surge;
And clown-world tries but cannot bring relief.
Orange Savior’s promise: undelivered
The funeral expires—and all is withered.