Twas the fifth of November, and all through the land,
We, the people, were restless and wringing our hands.
The pundits were nestled, predicting a fight,
Doom-scrolling gripped us well into the night.
I, with my coffee (third cup, truth be told),
Wrote some words in my journal—both hopeful and bold.
A tune for the chaos as history swirled.
A soundtrack to sing…
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