Presidential
Skrevet af Knud Kjølhede Petersen
A white pedestal…
Standing too tall for the truth it carries.
And on it, a half‑old man—
Mr. Dump toy.
He hums his hymn: “I’ve got the whole world in my hand…”
But the world does not hum back.
Up on that pedestal, porcelain throne,
FunnyBoy flexin’ like he carved the stone.
He sings that line like he owns the land—
but he’s holdin’ a snow globe, not the world in his hand.
Hair sprayed thick like a curtain at night,
coverin’ a rumor he keeps outta sight.
He walks like thunder but talks like a breeze,
gettin’ tricked by “friends” with the simplest tease.
You ain’t holdin’ the world, that’s a plastic toy—
whole crowd laughin’, “Dump toy!”
Claim king status? We checked—decoy.
You buy the lie, they sell the ploy.
Friends fade, Dump toy…
Not because they vanished,
but because they stopped applauding.
And the ones who stayed?
They were never yours.
They were watching… calculating…
Waiting for the moment you’d believe their smiles again.
Yo, he got no crew, his old team dipped,
now ex‑opps cheer him like the script got flipped.
They butter him up like a breadstick snack,
pat his shoulder while they rob his pack.
“Boss, you brilliant!” they grin real wide,
while picking his pockets from the other side.
He’s yellin’ “Checkmate!” in a game gone wrong—
bro, you’re shoutin’ UNO in a chessboard song.
Pedestal shiny—ego colossal,
anthem on loop like a gospel apostle.
Hair full of secrets, thinning disguise,
door to his truth locked behind lies.
Old foes “friends”? Man, that’s fraud in drag—
they wave his flag while snatchin’ the bag.
He’s the emperor’s clothes with the tags intact,
sellin’ wolf tickets—ain’t a single fact.
Falls for cons in HD replay,
world zooms in like, “There he goes… ay.”
He calls it power, but he’s graspin’ smoke,
every handshake’s staged like a carnival joke.
He shouts “I lead!” but he trails the pack—
even shadows don’t follow him back.
You ain’t holdin’ the world, that’s a plastic toy—
sit down, Mr. FunnyBoy.
Old enemies smile, but they don’t enjoy—
they just play you like a broken decoy.
Look at them, FunnyBoy…
the ones you call allies.
They clap for you, yes—
but not because they believe.
They clap
because the noise
keeps you from hearing
the truth.
They steer his steps like a marionette show,
pullin’ strings so smooth he’ll never know.
He’s the headline clown in a one-man parade,
maskin’ his doubts with a home‑made shade.
World sees everything—rearview clear,
every lie, every whisper, every “yessir” cheer.
He thinks he’s feared, but he’s used like a tool,
played by the players while he plays the fool.
Presidential
Skrevet af Knud Kjølhede Petersen
A white pedestal…
Standing too tall for the truth it carries.
And on it, a half‑old man—
Mr. Dump toy.
He hums his hymn: “I’ve got the whole world in my hand…”
But the world does not hum back.
Up on that pedestal, porcelain throne,
FunnyBoy flexin’ like he carved the stone.
He sings that line like he owns the land—
but he’s holdin’ a snow globe, not the world in his hand.
Hair sprayed thick like a curtain at night,
coverin’ a rumor he keeps outta sight.
He walks like thunder but talks like a breeze,
gettin’ tricked by “friends” with the simplest tease.
You ain’t holdin’ the world, that’s a plastic toy—
whole crowd laughin’, “Dump toy!”
Claim king status? We checked—decoy.
You buy the lie, they sell the ploy.
Friends fade, Dump toy…
Not because they vanished,
but because they stopped applauding.
And the ones who stayed?
They were never yours.
They were watching… calculating…
Waiting for the moment you’d believe their smiles again.
Yo, he got no crew, his old team dipped,
now ex‑opps cheer him like the script got flipped.
They butter him up like a breadstick snack,
pat his shoulder while they rob his pack.
“Boss, you brilliant!” they grin real wide,
while picking his pockets from the other side.
He’s yellin’ “Checkmate!” in a game gone wrong—
bro, you’re shoutin’ UNO in a chessboard song.
Pedestal shiny—ego colossal,
anthem on loop like a gospel apostle.
Hair full of secrets, thinning disguise,
door to his truth locked behind lies.
Old foes “friends”? Man, that’s fraud in drag—
they wave his flag while snatchin’ the bag.
He’s the emperor’s clothes with the tags intact,
sellin’ wolf tickets—ain’t a single fact.
Falls for cons in HD replay,
world zooms in like, “There he goes… ay.”
He calls it power, but he’s graspin’ smoke,
every handshake’s staged like a carnival joke.
He shouts “I lead!” but he trails the pack—
even shadows don’t follow him back.
You ain’t holdin’ the world, that’s a plastic toy—
sit down, Mr. FunnyBoy.
Old enemies smile, but they don’t enjoy—
they just play you like a broken decoy.
Look at them, FunnyBoy…
the ones you call allies.
They clap for you, yes—
but not because they believe.
They clap
because the noise
keeps you from hearing
the truth.
They steer his steps like a marionette show,
pullin’ strings so smooth he’ll never know.
He’s the headline clown in a one-man parade,
maskin’ his doubts with a home‑made shade.
World sees everything—rearview clear,
every lie, every whisper, every “yessir” cheer.
He thinks he’s feared, but he’s used like a tool,
played by the players while he plays the fool.
English