F bomb this **it
Just eyed Mr. Trump on the Covita balcony, not brightly kleig as usual, rather shadowy chiaroscuro, 6-feet back from the handrail fall-off hazard zone, suggesting a candle-lit desire for dinner-time protection from comeuppance dangers, disease or stroke or militants, without Marine guards or Secret Service or physicians or press secretary standing back and standing by.
Unshown crowds cheered and shouted subdued putdowns of Sleepy Joe as if the electoral effort required lacked energizing, as if the heroisizing dosages were winding down on the 10th day of dodging blood-borne bullets, as if showing and telling tales of grandeur and glory was more dutiful than inspirational.
The Wall will soon be finished, the market will come roaring back, jobs will be plentiful, the browns and the blacks assembled for the event, mostly unmasked, will be rewarded with fulfilled dreams of equality and justice, here he raised a fist for the police in the gathering, emitted a LAW AND ORDER cough, cough, cough, paused, took a deep breath, gazed out and above the people below, went silent, stayed silent, bowed his head,moaned F bomb this **it, withdrew into the mansion.