Sean Spicer vs. John Keats

When I have fears that I may cease to speak
Before my mouth has drained my scheming brain,
Fronting high-piled brown with barratry,
While striving to betray no strain;
When I behold upon the live mic’s face
Phallic symbol of TrumpsPutin bro-mance
And think I must conjure the wire tap trace
Of Spook 44 in a dervish dance,
It’s then, my conscience, I feel you cower
And know that I’ll never look upon thee more,
Plausibly denying the golden shower
Reigning from above — then being a whore
I spin some tweets on my slippery pinks
Hailing the Chief’s wood, swinging on the links.

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