OK I thought. #Bern now

A long time ago, I would have put you on my knee and said Hillary is your new dad, report to her for dinner immediately. This was before.

I am set on fire, on the inside, and no fire truck can put me out because no truck can fit in my assorted holes. I don’t want the truck to get in there! I have #Bern.

I saw the new polls and those numbers are not letters*

• *Letters can lie
• Bern is doing great and he can do this

What is “This?” Good point help define it

“This” is the election, doing it means he wins — You, thanks

Thanks!

Hillary is the old times, she wrote a thousand poems for Goldman Sachs. Boo! How is she not carried away by a big crowd, hoisted above and crowd-surfed out of the doors, at each debate before she can speak? Too many security men she’s paid for with her moneys. I demand to see her face justice for all the times she’s had money instead of bold ideas. Carry her up and take her to a new location whenever she gets near our beloved #Bern!

I loved Bern before you. You don’t get to have or understand him. He is from a ski town and predicted the wars would be a boo-boo.

Here is a poem the dumb Hillblow, who I hate, wrote for Goldman Sachs:

Goldman Sachs

Did I say Goldman Sachs

I meant Old Man Sacks

Of Cash

Of Cash and Men

John Steinbucks

Shit poem for a shit person. Let’s hear it for Bern now, I always knew he would become my son. He’ll put me up on a shelf and I’ll look at him whenever he comes home and says “Long day at the White House, dad.” I’ll cry because I’m so proud of him.

Now is not the time to be about old thoughts. Trump is hiding for Easter like a fat scoundrel. We have to stride constantly together, hands holding, feet tied together, walking from West Coast across to the East, crushing everything in our path for The Sandman.

I wish Elizabeth Warren would run.