Foggy black licorice contaminates taste buds.
Medicine ropes consume Donald Trump’s tongue—
graveyard zombies transform into a lasso...
Chewy tar fills every oral crater,
layers of darkness destroy dental hygienists.
Trump’s teeth rot. Death by licorice.

Demonic strips of doom, fatality lurks.
Packaged lies—poison, not a treat.
Licorice creeps through the digestive labyrinth...
In the depths of the nose,
the putrid smell of death coats
every grey hair, ruthlessly burning follicles.

Salivary glands murder the helpless throat—
starchy licorice whips whack stomach tissues
too strong for stomach acid alkalinity.
Hillary’s party prepares a casket, while
bitter charcoal cables bind with gelatin.
Donald’s belly decomposes. Death by licorice.

Intestines deteriorate from the wretched ribbons—
globby glucose goblins battle winged Twizzlers.
At the face of a beast:
rogue “candy” too toxic to die.
Predator licorice progress on the market,
until today, long live the apocalypse.

Cult leaders of Mafco, American Licorice
Company, and Chateau D’Lanz spy through
binoculars and laugh at the candidate’s
excruciating cries. The pungent “candy” wins...
Donald Trump’s corpse hits the floor,
innards painfully rotten. Death by licorice.