Kamala and Donald's America

In the shadow of a barn,  
where whispers of rebellion once stirred,  
the air thickens with echoes of hooves,  
cloven and heavy,  
trampling dreams into the mud.  
The banners wave,  
their colors bleeding into dusk,  
as slogans hang like fog,  
cloaking the truth in a haze of loyalty.

Under the watchful gaze of a painted pig,  
promises glisten like dew on poisoned grass,  
each word a silken thread,  
binding the hopes of the many  
to the whims of the few.  
A revolution, they said,  
but the wheel turns,  
crushing the fragile underbelly of freedom,  
as the familiar faces morph,  
wearing masks of change,  
yet revealing nothing but hunger.

Kamala stands at the forefront,  
an image of progress wrapped in power,  
but her voice echoes in chambers of the past,  
where the fervor of the crowd  
morphs into a chorus of silence,  
and the grain sinks deeper into the soil,  
as the promise of a harvest fades,  
consumed by the weight of expectation.

And in the shadows,  
a figure looms,  
Donald, with his golden gleam,  
offering a different kind of darkness,  
a carnival of chaos,  
where the jester dances,  
and the crowd claps,  
unaware of the strings pulled tight,  
across a stage of smoke and mirrors.

Two parties,  
two faces of the same beast,  
each yearning for the throne,  
each wielding the scepter of control,  
as the American heart beats  
in a cage of iron bars,  
the walls painted with the cries of the lost,  
the dreams that once soared,  
now tethered to the ground,  
heavy with the weight of despair.

In the end,  
the choice becomes a labyrinth,  
a descent into the dark,  
both paths lined with thorns,  
both leaders bearing the crown  
of a fractured promise,  
and the people,  
the forgotten chorus,  
watch as their song is drowned  
in the clamor of power,  
a melody of freedom,  
fading into the night.