The more I see of his face online
in high definition, the more it strikes me
as unintelligent and 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
as 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
much closer—the finish line, I mean—
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 ever might win
is the Stupidest Irish-American in Wisconsin.