I almost forgot how it all started.

So much distraction, I almost forgot how it all started.

Money vanished in Minneapolis

while they told us to clap.

Daycares on paper,

millions gone—

no handcuffs, no map.

They stole it from children

and called it compassion.

Millions skimmed while officials smiled

and stamped approval

in matching fashion.

Fake meals, fake counts, real cash,

no cells, no trials, no public shame—

just silence wrapped in policy

and carefully worded, the watchdog blamed.

At MSP the planes take off clean and polite,

While $700 million in “aid”

(now $19 billion?) vanish overnight.

No receipts, no answers,

just smiles rehearsed,

Call it compassion—wire it first.

Snow on the runway,

hands washed of blame,

Cash flies to Somalia,

questions stay grounded in shame.

Snow on the tarmac, virtue on cue,

Cash for the poor now buys rifles too.

Everyone shrugs — “Well, who could have guessed?”

When dollars meet warlords and terrorists dressed up as “distressed.”

If sunlight’s the cure

for money gone wrong,

Funny how this deal

prefers darkness so long.

Government arrives to gather facts.

What is the evidence?

Who knows and who did act?

Then comes the riots, perfectly timed,

Organizers humming through the night,

voices shouting “justice”

while pointing nowhere near the crime.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

A gunshot rings, a protester dies —

tragic, real, and quickly buried,

because truth is inconvenient

when the narrative’s already carried.

A woman was shot,

a life cut short— 😢

headline blinked,

then changed report.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

On the streets, the drums began—

not grief, but choreography,

Drums sounded in the distance—

not grief, but rehearsal.

The coordinators rolled in,

anger on a timetable,

signs printed clean,

outrage rentable.

Ringleader rage arrived,

uniform signs unfolding

like costumes from a trunk.

Same slogans, different faces,

timed arrests, designated places.

Not a movement—stage direction,

crowd control through misdirection.

Handlers rolling in by night,

rented rage and printed signs.

Agitators, provocateurs came,

anger scheduled by the hour,

while real blood darkened pavement

where a professional met power. 🥺

Cameras turned

like trained dogs do,

away from fraud,

away from who knew.

The cameras faced

where they were pointed,

the script approved,

the story trimmed,

the governor’s voice,

the mayor’s nod,

echoed back by friendly hymns.

Voices of power

ventriloquized concern

while hands stayed clean.

Governor speaks.

Mayor nods.

Media kneels

and calls it “calm.”

Justice waits,

truth stalls,

and the guilty walk

while the city pays it all.

Governor talks about healing.

Mayor talks about peace.

Media acts like stenographers

while accountability’s on lease.

No raids.

No names.

No orange suits.

Just diversion layered over proof.

This isn’t chaos—

it’s choreography.

Not incompetence—

but strategy.

This ain’t chaos, this is craft,

sleight of hand and practiced laugh.

Not a failure—perfect aim:

protect the cash, distract the blame.

And beneath the chants and choreographed cries,

the city counts what justice costs

when the guilty walk

and truth just watches

as another day rolls by.

And everyone knows it,

even if they won’t say:

justice didn’t fail here—

it was pushed aside

to protect the ones who got paid.

Fraud's become a footnote,

death a momentary glitch,

and truth was traded quietly

as the guilty elected tiptoe away

into the tall grass

uncaught, unpunished, and free

to defraud another day. 😡