Perhaps there is frivolity, a fancy-pants festooned feverish feeling in fortifying myself during the pandemic by building driftwood forts.
But I feel fortified and formidable when doing so while the First Furry Felonious Ferret Fiend fornicates up our fake, fatuous, facile, forlorn, freaked, Funhouse of a country. Land of the folderol and home of the feckless fools in untucked shirts.
Can we bring back the word fusspot?
If only a real fakir ran this unfortunate show. How fabulous and far out! He or she or the furry-antlered elk might finalize our flimsy, futile, fractured, flim flam fate as a nation. It is time we are exposed as a a fantastic failure, a fart in the flaming wind, while the brontosaurs hi-fives us a fat middle finger that will enrage the flat earth viewers of Fox News.
Fourth of July poem over. Finis. Finished.
Oh fuck, I forgot to use fetch, finagle, famish, fork and febrile in this poem.
(Note: no Thesaurus was used in this poem.)