Sing, O Muse, of the land of Oceania, Where the mighty Party reigns supreme, And Big Brother's gaze, ever watchful, Pierces the hearts of men and women. In the city of Airstrip One, where shadows Dance upon the walls of Victory Mansions, Lived Winston, a man of quiet rebellion, Whose thoughts dared to defy the iron rule. The telescreens, like the eyes of Argus, Saw all, knew all, and whispered lies, While the Ministry of Truth, with its serpentine tongue, Twisted the past to suit the present's needs. O Muse, tell of the forbidden love, Between Winston and Julia, bold and fair, Their secret meetings in the golden glade, A fleeting respite from the Party's snare. In the darkened corners of the city, Where the proles lived in ignorance, Winston sought the truth of ages past, In dusty tomes and whispered tales. The Brotherhood, a phantom hope, A dream of freedom in the night, Led Winston to the treacherous O'Brien, Whose words were honey, but heart was stone. Through labyrinthine halls of power, Winston walked, his spirit high, Yet shadows loomed, and fate conspired, To bring him low, to make him cry. In the bowels of the Ministry of Love, Where light was scarce and hope was none, Winston faced the wrath of Party's might, And in Room 101, his will was done. O Muse, recount the tortures dire, The rats that gnawed at Winston's soul, The breaking of his heart and mind, Until he loved Big Brother whole. Thus, in the land of Oceania, where freedom Is but a whisper in the wind, the tale Of Winston's struggle and ultimate fall Echoes through the ages, a warning to all. The Party's grip, like Hades' chains, Held fast the minds of all who lived, And in the end, the hero fell, A testament to power's thrall. Yet still, O Muse, let us remember, The spark of hope that once did burn, For even in the darkest night, The dream of freedom shall return. In the land of Oceania, where the sky Was ever gray and the streets were cold, Winston walked with heavy heart, A man alone in a sea of lies. The Ministry of Peace, with warlike hand, Kept the people in constant fear, While the Ministry of Plenty's cruel jest, Left them hungry, year after year. The Ministry of Love, with iron fist, Crushed dissent and sowed despair, And in its depths, the cries of pain Echoed through the stagnant air. O Muse, sing of the secret thoughts, That Winston dared to write in ink, In his hidden alcove, far from sight, Where the Party's gaze could never sink. He wrote of freedom, love, and truth, Of a world where men could speak their minds, But in his heart, he knew the cost, Of dreams that left the past behind. Julia, with her fiery spirit, Brought a light to Winston's life, Together they defied the night, And found a moment free from strife. In the room above the antique shop, They whispered secrets, shared their dreams, But fate, like a relentless tide, Swept away their fragile schemes. O'Brien, with his serpent's smile, Lured them into his deadly snare, And in the end, their love was crushed, By the weight of the Party's glare. In the cold and sterile halls, Where the Ministry of Love held sway, Winston's spirit was torn apart, And his dreams were cast away. The rats, with their gnashing teeth, Brought him to the brink of doom, And in that darkest, final hour, He betrayed his love, his heart consumed. Thus, in the land of Oceania, where freedom Is but a whisper in the wind, the tale Of Winston's struggle and ultimate fall Echoes through the ages, a warning to all. The Party's grip, like Hades' chains, Held fast the minds of all who lived, And in the end, the hero fell, A testament to power's thrall. Yet still, O Muse, let us remember, The spark of hope that once did burn, For even in the darkest night, The dream of freedom shall return. In the land of Oceania, where the sky Was ever gray and the streets were cold, Winston walked with heavy heart, A man alone in a sea of lies. The Ministry of Peace, with warlike hand, Kept the people in constant fear, While the Ministry of Plenty's cruel jest, Left them hungry, year after year. The Ministry of Love, with iron fist, Crushed dissent and sowed despair, And in its depths, the cries of pain Echoed through the stagnant air. O Muse, sing of the secret thoughts, That Winston dared to write in ink, In his hidden alcove, far from sight, Where the Party's gaze could never sink. He wrote of freedom, love, and truth, Of a world where men could speak their minds, But in his heart, he knew the cost, Of dreams that left the past behind. Julia, with her fiery spirit, Brought a light to Winston's life, Together they defied the night, And found a moment free from strife. In the room above the antique shop, They whispered secrets, shared their dreams, But fate, like a relentless tide, Swept away their fragile schemes. O'Brien, with his serpent's smile, Lured them into his deadly snare, And in the end, their love was crushed, By the weight of the Party's glare. In the cold and sterile halls, Where the Ministry of Love held sway, Winston's spirit was torn apart, And his dreams were cast away. The rats, with their gnashing teeth, Brought him to the brink of doom, And in that darkest, final hour, He betrayed his love, his heart consumed. Thus, in the land of Oceania, where freedom Is but a whisper in the wind, the tale Of Winston's struggle and ultimate fall Echoes through the ages, a warning to all. The Party's grip, like Hades' chains, Held fast the minds of all who lived, And in the end, the hero fell, A testament to power's thrall. Yet still, O Muse, let us remember, The spark of hope that once did burn, For even in the darkest night, The dream of freedom shall return. In the land of Oceania, where the sky Was ever gray and the streets were cold, Winston walked with heavy heart, A man alone in a sea of lies. The Ministry of Peace, with warlike hand, Kept the people in constant fear, While the Ministry of Plenty's cruel jest, Left them hungry, year after year. The Ministry of Love, with iron fist, Crushed dissent and sowed despair, And in its depths, the cries of pain Echoed through the stagnant air. O Muse, sing of the secret thoughts, That Winston dared to write in ink, In his hidden alcove, far from sight, Where the Party's gaze could never sink. He wrote of freedom, love, and truth, Of a world where men could speak their minds, But in his heart, he knew the cost, Of dreams that left the past behind. Julia, with her fiery spirit, Brought a light to Winston's life, Together they defied the night, And found a moment free from strife. In the room above the antique shop, They whispered secrets, shared their dreams, But fate, like a relentless tide, Swept away their fragile schemes. O'Brien, with his serpent's smile, Lured them into his deadly snare, And in the end, their love was crushed, By the weight of the Party's glare. In the cold and sterile halls, Where the Ministry of Love held sway, Winston's spirit was torn apart, And his dreams were cast away. The rats, with their gnashing teeth, Brought him to the brink of doom, And in that darkest, final hour, He betrayed his love, his heart consumed. Thus, in the land of Oceania, where freedom Is but a whisper in the wind, the tale Of Winston's struggle and ultimate fall Echoes through the ages, a warning to all. The Party's grip, like Hades' chains, Held fast the minds of all who lived, And in the end, the hero fell, A testament to power's thrall. Yet still, O Muse, let us remember, The spark of hope that once did burn, For even in the darkest night, The dream of freedom shall return.

I expected Trump to throw in some unusual apointees and sure enough some people are squirming.

Trump is not running against gays, not, not. Read carefuly, its sounds more like rule of law or the basic order we know all over the world and history.

The Trump Train was the sound of adventure and it felt fresh in a odd way. Trump was unstoppable and highly underestimated.

You must realize that at some point Harris lost interest in being President and began sabotoging herself.

At the rate things are going academics will be studying farts under different election defeat conditions.

It is easier to be generous to certian realities out there anyway. Be the best and rewards will come fast.

We aren't in futurtopia, but the will to survive and survive well is in our blood.

The election is over and Harris fans must finish their past world and move ahead into the future. The future is bright.

We meet again.

Why do people trust me when I write poetry? That is for people who assume that poetry is an expression of insanity. In reality a hard to write poem is one if the most brainy things to write.