Said Wilhoit, quite dry, in a fit:
“There’s one rule that conserves every bit:
Some folks are immune,
Others crushed by the rule—
Protected, not bound; bound, not lit.”
They praise the Second loud as a bell,
Till others insist it applies as well.
When the carrier’s “them,”
The right starts to bend—
Turns out “shall not” comes with an asterisk spell.
A nurse with a permit stood still,
Gun holstered, no threat, no ill will.
Pinned hard to the street,
Disarmed at their feet—
Then bullets decided the kill.
“He had a gun!” cried the men at the mic,
Ignoring the clips they don’t like.
He never once drew,
But the story they knew
Was easier spun than the strike.
The gun groups all grumbled, distressed:
“This isn’t how rights are expressed!”
They barked at a pawn,
But let Trump ramble on—
Selective outrage’s oldest test.
Behind closed doors, panic took hold:
“The messaging’s bad,” Trump was told.
Not “Why is he dead?”
But “Shift it instead”—
Change channels; let outrage grow cold.
They preached “law and order” with flair,
Till law met a man they’d declared
Was the wrong kind of free
For their certainty—
Then order arrived with a snare.
Chaos, they’ve learned, has a use:
It rattles the calm and the loose.
If fear fills the air,
The fence-sitters stare—
And silence becomes the excuse.
Frank Wilhoit put it plain and precise:
One rule, and it’s paid for the price—
The law’s like a moat:
Enemies choke, friends float.
That’s it. That’s the whole damn device.
They clutch the Amendment like prayer,
Till the “wrong” kind of citizen’s there.
Then “shall not be barred”
Turns into “don’t move, don’t breathe, don’t be armed”—
Amazing how scripture can tear.
A nurse lay face-down on the street,
Permit in his pocket, hands meek.
They yanked out his gun,
Decided “he's done,”
And shot him where law and lies meet.
Law and order, they shout with a grin,
Till order means they might lose skin.
Then order’s a ruse,
And law is a noose—
Pulled tight if you’re not in the inn.
The NRA twisted in pain:
“Not like this!” they weakly campaign.
They scolded a flack,
But won’t bite the hand back—
Principles snap when donors complain.
The White House saw smoke, not a crime:
“The narrative’s off—buy us time.”
Not “Who pulled the trigger?”
But “Who’s losing the ticker?”
Dead nurse? Bad branding. That’s the line.
They know chaos works just fine:
It freezes the meek, draws the line.
“Stay out of the fray,
This doesn’t touch you anyway”—
Till boots hit your door in due time.
What Trump’s party cannot endure
Is a country that’s equal and plural:
No masters, no checks,
No boots on our necks—
An America free of the cruel.
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