THE MUSICAL TRUMP*
With a horn unencumbered of mute,
The Donald is forte on toot.
His bass is sublime
As he farts marking time.
When he tinkles to end, he’s a flute.
*trump, my brother-in-law informs me, in the U.K. is slang for “fart”
AND SPEAKING OF…
He’s a businessman versed in the arts,
And a melter of feminine hearts.
The Trump has no rival,
His words are archival,
And the universe rings when he farts.
JERSEY CITY BLUES
With his grip of what is on the wane,
Mr. Trump is convinced it’s all gain
As he goes round the bend
Hell-bent to the end,
A caboose in pursuit of its train.
THE FATHER OF LIES
When we want to call something a fake,
Say, a cheap imitation of snake,
Trumpery fits the bill
With both swindler and shill.
(Link to reprobate, con man, and rake.)
So let us praise The Donald, T. rump*,
Evolution’s strange retrograde bump.
We’d thought such extinct,
But our DNA blinked,
And a birdbrain crept out of the dump.
This is the third and final 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 and here.