Liberal YouTubers

New treatments by drip are the trend,
But Trump’s veins just won’t comprehend.
So a port's in the skin,
While the chaos begins—
His decline, like his weekend, won't end.

They infuse him to slow the decay,
But the mind’s mostly drifted away.
With a port in his chest,
And golf shoes at rest,
He'll still claim he’s sharp — and obeyed.

They pump in the drugs through a port,
While his grip on the truth runs too short.
As the neurons go dark,
He still howls and barks—
And the party keeps backing the corpse.

They thread in the line with a prayer,
While he stares through the void and the glare.
The body's still warm,
But he's lost every storm—
And they prop up the husk like a chair.