Erika Kirk can't keep Charlie's audience

[gfarber]

32. Erika

A smug little man full of spite,
Mocked a girl for her cami too tight.
Though her points rang out clear,
He sold rage, not good cheer —
Now his widow must carry that blight.

A preacher of rage dressed as truth,
Built his fame on humiliating youth.
He sneered at their pain,
For clicks and for gain —
Now his widow must mimic the uncouth.

He crowed while young women were shamed,
Called it “debate,” but it’s rage he proclaimed.
Now he’s gone in a flash,
And his wife sells the trash —
Still dolled up while preaching the blamed.

Charlie Kirk built his name on abuse,
Sneering lies he would gleefully juice.
He mocked nervous teens,
Sold misogynist scenes —
Now his widow repackages Zeus.

The phony bastard, with his jaw clenched in hate,
Filmed girls just to humiliate.
Now he's dead, and his wife
Tries to monetize strife —
But she can't play the patriarch's fate.

Charlie Kirk mocked a girl for her chest,
Then framed her as loose and unblessed.
Now he lies cold and still,
While his widow must fill
The old role: make hate look like the rest.

He made his fortune on shame,
Filming girls, then distorting their name.
Now he's rotting in dirt,
While his wife hawks his hurt—
Still selling slut-hate for acclaim.

The prick built an empire on lies,
Where cruelty passed as “being wise.”
Now he’s gone in a flash,
Just a martyr for cash —
And his wife keeps the grift in disguise.

She preaches that women submit,
While cashing in every last bit.
Not tending the hearth,
But inflating his worth—
In heels, with a Bible, and grit.

Erika weeps in soft light,
Sells housewifely virtue by night.
But behind the sweet pose,
Are spreadsheets and clothes —
A brand built on patriarch spite.

They cry that a woman's place stays
In the home, out of power or praise.
Yet the “helpmeets” they tout
Run empires of clout —
While scorning the feminists’ ways.

In florals, she plays the pure wife,
Preaching homebound, subservient life.
But her empire’s vast,
Built on grifting the past —
A soft dress concealing the knife.

She gazes up, sweet and demure,
While selling the Christian-cute cure.
But behind all the lace,
Is a cold marketplace —
Where submission is branding, not pure.

With ruffles and Bibles in tow,
She stages a God-fearing show.
But the gospel she preaches
Lines pockets, not reaches —
It’s couture for the patriarchy’s glow.