The Love Song Of Donald J. Trump

02/07/2017 09:57 am ET Updated Feb 07, 2017
Kevin Lamarque / Reuters

A Totalitarian Bromance in Verse
(with apologies to Mr. Eliot and English Lit majors everywhere)


Let’s go, me and you,
When the country is cracked and spread thin
Like butter scraped over too much bread.
Let’s go, Steve-O. Come on. The time is right
For outfoxing the elites and the eggheads
With their love of facts, nuance and art.
When it comes to buying the White House,
We don’t have to ask, “How much is it?”
You handed it to me on a platter, my friend.
Thanks again, Breitbart!

(I don’t intend to live in DC, by the way.
But I guess it’s a nice place to visit.)

In the room the generals come and go
Debating when to invade Mexico.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes
Smells like money to me.
That coal-fired plant we built
On the Mall
Is a thing of wild beauty.
Our friends in mining and timber and big oil
Are licking their chops like drunken cats.
They see the writing on the wall:
Oval Office 4 sale. Welcome plutocrats!

Don’t worry, Steve-O, there will be time
For you and your white nationalist pals
To prepare your faces to meet the faces that you hate.
There will be time to frame Hillary
For something she did or did not do
When she was Secretary of State.
Time for you and time for me
To make a hundred hasty, ill-considered, reckless decisions,
Without vision or revisions,
Before I have to go on air and bobble more softballs
Tossed my way by Hannity.

In the room the rogue staffers come and go
Wondering how much longer they can lay low.

And yeah, okay, there will be time
To wonder, “Do I care?”
Time to turn back and,
With a sad-looking man bun in the middle of my hair —
(They will say: “Now his hair is growing hair!”)
My sour frown in place, a painted dimple in my weak chin,
My necktie made in China, just like my American flag pin —
(They will say: “But how his rhetoric has grown fat!”)

Do I dare
Disturb the universe?

Oh, whatever. It’s too late to worry about that.

I have measured out my life with gold-plated coffee spoons;
The voices dying out there in some farther room
Are those damn refugees, I presume.

In my dreams I see the eyes,
I’ve known them all —
The eyes that pin me, wriggling, to the wall.
How should I begin to apologize
For being a butthead all my days?

Just kidding! It doesn’t matter, anyways.

And I have grabbed the arms, and other places,
And torn this and that dress —
I always figured that because I’m famous
I can take whatever I want.
But I digress.

My thoughts are ragged claws
Scuttling across marble floors. Weird, right?

Steve-O, listen, not that it matters, but the other day
I saw a Secret Service guy laughing behind your back.
I asked him about it later, asked if he found you amusing.
He said, “That is not it at all, sir.
That is not what I meant, at all.”
So I let it go.

Hey. Is that Axe aftershave you’re using?

Do you ever feel old? I do.
My pants don’t fit the way they used to.

Sometimes I wish I could leave this all behind.
Maybe take a walk on a beach
Or find a place where I can get away from these
Howling voices in my mind.

Do you believe in mermaids, Steve-O?
I did once. Now — well, I just don’t know.

Whoa! I’ve talked your ear off. Thanks for letting me ramble.
Tell Spicer to come in, will you?
I dreamed up some new crowd numbers for the inauguration
And I’m pretty sure they’ll thrill you.

HuffPost

BEFORE YOU GO

CONVERSATIONS