the spinning toyol

courtesy mob's crib

Has he changed these days?
The days of glory in the black art
It has finally brought down to earth
By the people torching in the ballot boxes

Now he hides
In the blogosphere to write
Brewing his concoctions
Trying to sell on line

The spins he will do
The Toyol shall not die
Out in the cold
The botox takes effect

Now he wrote
His chief must go
Searching for his princess
He has lost most of his hope

The ship is sinking
Toyol knows about it
He tries to tell
Nobody in his platoon believes
Toyol brews his own medicine

In his outpost he rants
Thinking he can still rule
In the cyber-world
But he forgets about the mob
Castrating him into many tiny pieces
And let it floats in the space
Where untruth shall lie there forever