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The Ballad Of Donald J. Trump

You knew Donald J. Trump needed limericks. So did we.


He’s bored with hotels and casinos,
Sated with golfing and pinots,
His tag-line, “You’re fired!”
So passé, so tired,
Why not run to appoint the next Nino?

So he gathered his legions of fans,
Who basked in his livid sun-tan,
“No low-energy Jeb (!),
He stands for the plebs!
Hey, have you seen the size of his hands?”

A style reminiscent of Jackson’s—
All the rage amongst Angles and Saxons
(Not with “Mexican rapists,”
Or women, or papists)—
True conservatives sounded their klaxons.

A xenophobe’s platform of spite:
“Build a wall, make them pay, future bright!
David Duke, KKK,
Sure beats me, who are they?”
Could this brute be the Geist of our Zeit?

Let’s concede what a beauty his wife is,
But lest that bare fact should entice us,
His disdain for the fair sex
(And his pair of fair ex-es)
Gives him something in common with ISIS.

Not Ted Cruz with his “lies and deceit,”
Nor Lil’ Marco’s “diminutive feet,”
Nor Carly (“her face!”),
Nor Ben Carson (“his race!”),
With The Donald could scarcely compete.

To millions he may be a hero,
To others a policy tyro,
But pals like Chris Christie
Endorse and insist he’s
The best fiddlin’ ruler since Nero.

Next to Cleveland to blow up the Party
Of Lincoln and Taft and…McCarthy,
Enraged delegates,
Just like in ’68!
The first ballot: a new Buonaparte?

While this boor merits only a pillory,
Who’s left to us then…just Hillary?
If we cannot endure her,
Must we vote for der Führer?
Why must suffrage result in such misery?

For Right is Right, and Left is Left, and never the twain shall bump,
Unless it be in the candidacy of one Donald J. Trump.