The more I see his Irish face online
in high definition, the more it strikes me
as unintelligent, even asinine.
Second in line for the presidency,
after Vice President Mike Pence,
he’s nothing but a serial liar,
empty-headed, legendarily dense,
posing as a wonk and marathoner.
He didn’t win the only marathon he ran in
as a tenderfoot at the age of twenty,
a MIdwest wannabe from Wisconsin
turning up in Congress like a bad penny,
good only at one thing, self-promotion.
He's his own public relations agent,
addicted to a potent self-love potion,
with less body fat—he claimed six percent,
the average male's is 16 to 24—
but he won’t take off his shirt to prove it.
He’s thin and works out rabidly, for sure,
but unless they kindly let him move it
closer—the finish line he can't abide—
or let him at times slow down to a walk
or, like a dumb hitchhiker, thumb a ride,
he’ll not only walk the walk, he’ll talk the talk.
The only race Ryan might ever win
is the Stupidest Irishman in Wisconsin.