When The Fog Horn Blows

The country is in a perilous state, groping for land in a deep, swirling fog. The HardLeft has initiated armed conflict, and there will be a response. The HardLeft laughingly puts on a play in Central Park in which a caricature of President Trump gets knifed to death every night to wild applause, the audience never expecting any pushback. But there was. A peaceful pushback, but the next one might not be so peaceful. They have asked for it, have the HardLeft, and they will not like what they get. The fog will not lift anytime soon, and the horn is sounding somewhere in the rock filled icy mist.

When the fog horn blows
Then the danger’s near
When the fog horn blows
Will then someone hear
In the swirling fog
Sharpened rocks surround
While the pounding surf
Roars with crashing sound
But does no one hear
Perhaps no one cares
All are busy at
Rearranging chairs

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