Writer and filmmaker Ethan Coen will be contributing to these pages from time to time as a poetic fairy of sorts, perched upon the shoulder of our new president. The latest wave of his wand produced the poem below. If you missed his ― and the president’s ― inaugural verse, it is here.
There’s cotton candy on his head
And hookers pee on him in bed
—Oh no they don’t, come on now, it’s
The groping only he admits to.
That, and crashing dressing rooms
To try and see teenagers’ tits.
He smiles on Saudi atom bombs
And snarls at all the Gold Star moms
—Oh that’s not true, just one, when she
Was mean to him on the TV.
Who acts like that! These people! It’s
As if he’d grabbed her cunt! Or tits!
He does that, yes—but never hers!
So quit it! Stop the slurs!
It’s hard to get: what’s with the haters?
He likes everyone: dictators,
Billionaires, Pence (sort of), satyrs-
(Ailes, O’Reilly), lots of broads
—But whiners, no, and not the frauds
Who challenge him, but, come on, please,
They’re jealous, since quite frankly he’s
Phenomenal. Admit it’s true
And see if he won’t like you too.
A narcissist? His fans don’t think. Big fans. And lots.
Guess what. He won. You losers. Twats.