The normalization of Trump’s behavior by the media, some of the political establishment, and his loyal fan base has chipped away at social values and public trust. It’s not about party lines anymore; it’s about the stability of world relations, truth, and the very soul of the country.
We deserve better leadership. We deserve honesty, integrity, equality and a government that works for everyone—not one that is driven by self-interest, chaos, division, bigotry, racism, and misogyny. This isn't the work of a fully functioning adult, this is the footprint of a criminal, sociopathic, narcissist, at best. A flailing-arm inflatable tube man would have been a better choice as president.
How is DJT the absolute worst? Let us wax poetic, and remember just *some* of the ways:
 
A Requiem for the Grift Presidency
(Or: “A Tube Man Would’ve Been Better”)
 
O say, what storm beneath the stars
Unleashed this gilded avatar?
A man of gold, but hollowed soul,
Who scorned the oath, defied control.
 
He burned clean air for profit's gain,
Unleashed the smog, unchained the flame—
Undoing rules the world agreed
To guard the earth from corporate greed.
 
From Paris pacts he walked away,
Made nature’s laws a game to play.
The wetlands wept, the wildlife fled,
As pipelines carved the riverbed.
 
He stacked the courts, he mocked the press,
Appointed kin, and called it “success.”
He sold the state in gilded halls
And charged the people for the walls.
 
Convictions came—but not of heart.
Indictments, counts, each filed chart:
Fake records, secrets kept in vaults,
Co-conspiracies, democracy’s assaults.
 
A jury’s voice, clear and defined,
Said, “Yes—he trespassed, crossed the line.”
$87 million—not remorse,
Just Carroll's strength against brute force.
 
More voices rise: Leeds, Stoynoff, more—
A chorus silenced, now they roar.
Some claims dismissed, some left unheard—
But trauma echoes without word.
 
His tariffs lashed like wayward flame,
No strategy, just pride and blame.
Allies shaken, rivals thrilled—
The global stage, a void he filled.
 
And on that cold insidious day—
January's ghost would not delay—
He stirred the crowd, then claimed retreat,
As fascists surged through hallowed street.
 
Eight suits now seek a reckoning fair—
While he shouts “Immunity!” to the air.
But justice waits with patient grace,
And law may find what votes displaced.
 
So here we stand—aware, awake—
Still sifting through the ash and quake.
No ordinary flaws, no simple gaffes—
But civic wounds, and autocrat laughs.
 
For history knows how power ends—
Not with the roar, but truth that mends.
May lessons learned not fade or rust:

A tube man, yes, would’ve earned more trust.