The 47th President Poem: The 47th, by Abiola Lawal

—A Poem for the Next Chapter of America

A hush before the trumpet blast,
The ballots counted, dice are cast.
A nation waits with bated breath—
Who rises now from fate or death?

The 47th, suit and tie,
Stands beneath the fractured sky.
Some see hope—a torch relit.
Some see shadows—same old shit.

He (or she?) arrives with practiced grin,
Pledging change from deep within.
“Unite,” they say, “Let’s heal this land,”
While half the crowd won’t even stand.

A sea of flags, both red and blue,
Each waving what they think is true.
One side cheers with clenched delight,
The other curses through the night.

The Good

Maybe roads get built and bridges mended,
Maybe wars are stopped, and hatred ended.
Jobs may rise like morning sun,
And justice serve more than just some.

Perhaps the sick will find relief,
The poor will breathe beyond their grief.
Perhaps the climate gets a chance,
And kids still learn to dream, to dance.

The Bad

But promises are made of sand,
And power has a hungry hand.
Lobby checks and secret deals,
Pipelines forged on spinning wheels.

Maybe tempers flare anew,
As blue and red bleed deeper hue.
Protests swell like thunder rolls,
While leaders chase unreachable goals.

The Ugly

Or worse—indifference takes its seat,
As apathy fills Main Street.
Another year, another lie,
Another child learns not to try.

Democracy on shaky knees,
Truth drowned out by louder sleaze.
TikTok reels and meme campaigns—
Is anything of substance gained?

The Feelings

There’s depression in the working class,
Where dreams are sold for fuel and gas.
Anger in the mother’s cry
Who buries sons with no reply.

Yet happiness might bloom again,
In neighborhoods that once knew pain.
And optimism—thin, but there—
Rides on winds that stir the air.

Four more years, the people chant,
Some in joy, and some in rant.
The 47th takes the stage—
A blank new line on history’s page.

Will it be a tale of grace,
Or one more scar upon this place?
The ink is wet, the time is now—
To break or keep the sacred vow.

So here we stand, unsure, perplexed,
At the gateway to what’s coming next.
The best? The worst? We cannot see—
But we are the story, not just he