A QUESTION OF CLASS
In the heat of the fray, Donald Trump,
Who called Rosie a slob and a frump,
Turned from mere polliwog
Into virulent frog
Oozing toxins from high on a stump.
DONALD DUCKS THE QUESTION
By “wherever,” he said, he meant, “nose,”
When the hormonal question arose,
He just couldn’t be rude,
Or so vulgar, or lewd,
As to hint at her menstrual flows.
GOOSE INTO SWAN
So, he’d never “mock the disabled,”
And therefore the charge should be tabled,
Along with reporters,
Those sad last resorters,
And the papers by which they’re enabled.
Well, The Donald is surely the cream
On the latte of maybe and seem,
And will sing any tune
To inflate the balloon
On which he’s suspended his dream.
Like a gangbanger caught on the fly,
Or a sneak thief doubling-down on a lie,
He’s full of excuses
For all his abuses
While he looks the abused in the eye.
This is the first in a three-day sequence of poems by Stuart Jay Silverman about the United States’ next potential dictator. Silverman’s work can also be found in Volume 4 of our print issue.