If the president is a hoax, how about your boyfriend? 
 
Missing an idea of particularity, there’s an unbuttoned pain to wrest  
Your hermaphroditic itches gerrymandered in ambiguity.  
 
Contentment rates are raised where  
They go away,  
released at last as what-about-isms and impartial dyscalculia —  
Fighting the relative fight to prolong our lives.  
 
The tide appears to notarize all this — And best, 
we have come to our senses putting up fresher signs of interminable equivocation.   
Apology to your mate.