The Passion of Uncle Sam

Beneath the blood-red sunset on the Washington Mall, a wooden gallows rises high like Golgotha’s call. Donald Trump in black suit stands with rope in steady hand, Uncle Sam dragged forward, flag-torn, barefoot, barely able to stand. They whipped him raw with belts of stars and bloody stripes, leather splitting skin till crimson rivers poured from every stripe. His beard drips spit and vomit, one eye swollen shut and black, the living symbol of a nation broken on its back. The noose bites deep into his wrinkled, trembling throat, cartilage grinding as the knot pulls tight and chokes. His knees buckle hard, urine staining down the faded blue, the once-proud Uncle Sam now piss-soaked, shaking through and through. “Donald! Donald, mercy—don’t pull that lever yet! I’m beggin’ on these bloody, broken knees, don’t let me swing and choke to death! The American Dream is still breathin’ desperate in my chest— don’t hang it with me, sir, don’t let America die like this! Spare the huddled masses at the golden door, spare every dreamer who crossed oceans seeking something more! I carried liberty through fire, through every hellish war— kill this old body if you must… but let the nation’s soul survive!” The trapdoor groans beneath his torn and bleeding toes, rope creasing flesh till veins burst purple and his tongue swells black and gross. Legs kick frantic in the air—thudding wet against the wood, fingers clawing empty sky, nails splitting, dripping blood. “I gave you Valley Forge in snow, I gave you Normandy’s bloody sand, I lit the moon for every soul who reached with trembling hand! Donald, you were born beneath my stars and stripes so bright— don’t murder the mother that raised you through the endless night!” The rope jerks savage. Neck snaps sideways with a sickening, wet crack. Body convulses hard, foam bubbling from his foaming, gasping mouth. Eyes roll white, face purple-black, the final deathly slack— yet still the gurgling plea leaks out as life begins to black: “Donald… I can’t… breathe… the Dream is gaspin’ right here with me… don’t let it cease… every small-town kid still reachin’, every heart still tryin’… let America live… even as this body’s dyin’… Oh God… oh God… spare the United States… let the eagle rise… even as my body sways…” The body twists slow in the dying light, stars and stripes hanging limp, stained dark with final fright. A single tear still glistens on the swollen, purple cheek— and in the choking silence, the last wet whisper leaks: “Don’t… let… America… die… with… me…” The wind howls cold across the empty Mall. Nothing left but the creak of rope… and the death of it all.