Rememberings

by Sinéad O'Connor

In America, Trump wants everyone to go back to work, right at the crest of the virus’s wave. And he wants sick people to take some drug he knows nothing about, but he won’t wear a mask. He’s the king of Kool-Aid. He says he can’t be meeting presidents, dictators, kings, or queens while wearing a mask. And only last week some princess of Europe died, actually. Of the virus. The people are to blame. If Trump were an Irish president or prime minister, he’d have been physically ripped out of office the day he first gave away someone’s child at any border. He’s mentally ill. The so-called sane people are at best doing nothing and at worst enabling him. Like some giant emperor who has no clothes. Which is all he is. A lesson for the people not to be so fuckin’ nice all the time. I mean, none of the reporters ever ask him, “Sir, what is wrong with you?” Negligence. The desire to be polite, it’s killing them. And it goes on and on. No matter what he does.