Bit of a downer, this one. For a more rousing Trump poem click to find the previous one here.
The hand went where it wasn’t wanted—
that hand, groping. Pushed away,
it only went to prey elsewhere,
and lit at last on Lincoln’s bible.
That’s our bible! we who share
—devout and faithless both—that symbol.
What is his hand doing there?
He doesn’t care.