He's back and more orange than ever... another revision of Stanley Moss' poem
Trump
to the worthless poor
I see America sitting at Trump’s table,
to speak of anything but money is taboo.
His pals think the wrong side won the Civil War,
slavery was worth fighting for.
They say he’s suing Louis Armstrong
for playing the trumpet, he damns King Kong
for climbing the Empire State because the sinless
real estate monkey business is his business.
His barber has made a fortune selling his cut golden hair
with the gold dust dandruff of a billionaire.
Trump’s Spray, his broken wind, rare fragrance,
the perfume of love, once the rage in France,
given his plans for Muslim and Mexican immigration
now off the shelves by counter reformation.
One plus nine zeros make a billion
but no number of zeros make number one.
How many lies make a mistake?
Every twinkling star, the moon, the sun,
has Trump’s face, every snowflake.
You may want less, but I’ll give away the store:
wrapped in the stars and stripes, patriots galore
shout “Trump for president!” want his face
on paper money, pennies, nickels, and dimes.
“End the dirty news in The New York Times!”
Monuments to his victories like Samothrace:
Donald’s tennis racquet, golf shoe, and sneaker,
anything his, a stain from a love affair,
is worth as much as a Van Gogh ear.
I heard there was sold at auction somewhere
out of the tax zones of the human race
for the price of a Rodin bronze “Thinker”
a Trump toilet seat, a burnisht throne
he called his “little gold mine,”
proof top of the world and bottom meet.
Without sin, he casts the first stone.
History’s a sissy, let’s bring back the guillotine.
A judge with a Latin name is Pontius Pilate.
Build a wall, Mexicans won’t let gringos come in.
Trump’s rule: 100-proof love of country
is buy a farm or building in every state.
Money, money, money, money,
is what keeps America great.
USA! USA! USA!
He denies he built the Great Wall in Cathay,
in Mobile, Alabama he forgot three Ks.
Donald is an oak, his foes pussy willows,
his enemies crooked marshmallows.
Trump is proud in a public shower—
between his legs, a twelve-inch root
flowers into a redwood.
Judas was a liberal, made a hell of a deal.
Trump Ocean will cover Trump Tower
when all the holy texts are drowned,
when sharks have devoured the last minnow,
the one good book afloat: The Art of the Deal.
Because no is yes, and yes is no,
pray, our Father who art in Trump Tower,
hallowed be thy portfolio,
thy casino come, thy will be done in real estate
as it is in Heaven . . .
Getting old, the earth is black hole jailbait.
Evangelical citizen, with angel in your name,
I find a terrible ugliness in TRUMP heaven
along the parkways, his name in saintly skies
twenty-four/seven,
longer than the moon or sun,
the Statue of Liberty’s evil eyes
