Where did your storm go, MAGA friend? You shouted, you posted, you swore your hunt would never end. QAnon whispered secrets, theories shifting with the breeze, “Trust the plan,” “Enjoy the show”—nothing’s ever what it seems. You chased the cabal, the deep state, the “Great Awakening” dream, “Pizzagate,” “Follow the White Rabbit,” every cryptic meme. You waited for “The Storm,” arrests, tribunals, military might, But the “list” is still missing, and there’s no justice in sight. Pam Bondi said, “The list? It’s right here on my desk.” Another witch hunt, another hoax—just add it to the rest. You’ve been lied to, don’t you know? The Storm was just you being part of Trump’s puppet show. Think about it—where did Dan Bongino’s anger go? He raged for years, now he shrugs and says, “I don’t know.” Where’s that secret list, the one you swore would drop? The villains, the monsters, the names at the top. Security tapes, sex videos, party pics—evidence remains buried, we deserve to see. You fucking claimed transparency. Epstein’s death—suicide? Missing minutes don’t lie. Do clocks just stop? Come on, don’t buy that lie. Maxwell’s in prison, but the truth never lands. The victims still waiting, the world moved along, While you cling to a story that’s already gone wrong. There are a thousand victims, their stories still untold, While the guilty walk free, their secrets bought and sold. Hard drives and phones locked behind closed doors, Pictures and movies—evidence, not just rumors or lore. Computers stacked high, files deep in the mist, All that proof together, that’s the real list. Where are the names, the faces, the truth we demand? Why does justice stall, why the sleight of hand? Don’t let your anger go, don’t let your fire die, If you’re not to blame, then why the need to lie? You can’t just flip the table and pretend it’s all the same— We want every move revealed, every player named. Don’t tell me “nothing to see here,” don’t say “forget it.” This isn’t a headline you can spin and edit. When a reporter pressed Trump, he snapped, “Why are you still talking about Epstein?” That’s not an answer, that’s a guilty man’s routine. We’re not letting go, we’re not backing down, We want the truth, not a circus or clown. This song is a scream, a demand, a fight— We want justice in the open, not buried at night. Pam Bondi’s desk must be overflowing with names, But the “witch hunt” and “hoax” are their favorite games. You called for the storm—now you’re left in the rain, Waiting for justice that never came. All those secrets, all those files, Locked away behind practiced smiles. You bought the promise, you played along— But the “Storm” was just a cover for what’s really wrong. So ask yourself, as the truth unfolds: Was it all for nothing, those lies you were sold? Where did your storm go, MAGA friend? The list is gone, the Pedophiles remain Why is that not driving you insane ?

Where Did The Storm Go ?