by Orel Protopopescu
Some say the bombshell book’s the bug
that caused D. T.’s unraveling—
comparing buttons with a thug,
co-opting truth by caviling.
Roused hordes descend to parse the tweets
that his dejected flesh secretes.
You’ll find more reason in a flea
than in his finger’s random poke.
He is as he has been, will be:
The GOP’s worst party joke—
gift-wrapped, defective from the start
and guaranteed to fall apart.