If Donald Trump was a poet and wrote a Sonnet for Harris

(with apologies to Elizabeth Barett Browning)

How do I loathe thee? Let me count the ways.
I loathe thee to the depth. and breath, and height
My sole can reach, when feeling out of sight
For thee's end of Being, an ideal Graze.
I loathe thee to the level of everyday’s
Moist quiet need, by shun and canned-all light.
I loathe thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I loathe thee purely, as a turn of Phrase.
I loathe thee with the passion put to use
In my old briefs, and with my childish farts.
I loathe thee with a loathe I seemed too loose
With my lost saints,—I loathe thee with my breadth,
Trials, lears, of all my wife!—and, if Goad choose,
I shall but loathe thee better after death.