by John Ridland
(To the tune of “Glow Worm,” as sung by the Mills Brothers)
Tweet, little Trumpster, twitter, twitter
Tweet us the gold that makes you glitter
Safe in the gilt of Mar-a-Lago
Tweet at the gentleman from Chicago
Twitter all night in your pajamas
Fairytale tweets about the Obamas
Twitter the “fake facts” on which you live
Not any real alternative
Tweet all you want, our little Twitterist
Tweet us the one that makes you bitterest
How a Reality vaudevillean
Lost to a woman by three million
How all the newspapers but two
Came out for her and not for you
Then the Electors kissed your—feet
Tweet, little Tweetster, tweet.
Tweet, little Twitterer, tweet and twitter
Tweet us the laughs that make us titter
Tweet with a roar like a lyin’ lion
Tweet like your presidency is dyin’
Twitter your twitters more and more manic
Twitter goin’ down on your Titanic
Deep on the bottom of the ocean
You can tweet twitters in slow motion
When you are sunk, oh how we’ll miss you,
Still, while the octopussies kiss you,
When you are grabbed in a watery grave
Yours is a life we couldn’t save
You’ll have been trumped by your own twitters,
Runt of the presidential litters
You can stay on in the big White House
As Vladimir Putin’s pet mouse.
Tweet, little twitterer, tweet
Tweet, little twitterer, tweet
Tweet, little twitterer, tweet
Tweet, little twitterer, tweet. Tweet.
by Orel Protopopescu
(From “From Massages to ‘Pawicures,’” New York Times, July 2017)
No need to park your well-bred pet
with friends or sitters or your vet
while you sail off to distant ports.
Now there’s a choice of pet resorts.
Want pawicures and rooms with views
and cams that give you real-time news
of Fido’s facials, hand-plucked hairs?
The gods of commerce heard your prayers.
But could they soothe the fat wolf PACs
whose polished claws fillet our backs?
What spa tames howling demagogues?
Not one? We’re going to the dogs!
by Chris O’Carroll
You Boy Scouts are loyal, unlike my A.G.,
Who skipped out and let them sic Mueller on me.
My crew has to serve with complete loyalty,
From Cabinet minions to wife #3.
The tales I could tell about parties at sea!
You Boy Scouts are trustworthy. You can trust me.
by Mae Scanlan
The briefings (press) are quite a mess
For media geese and ganders,
Since at the dais holding sway is
Sarah Huckabee Sanders.
She’s now preferred to Sean, we’ve heard,
Though both can raise our danders;
This gal is cool and no one’s fool,
Ms. Sarah Huckabee Sanders.
She’s zipper-lipped—she sticks to script,
She’s not one who meanders;
She makes her mark with snippy snark,
Ms. Sarah Huckabee Sanders.
No pix allowed (cuts down the crowd);
She slings the slurs and slanders
With great finesse. How Trump must bless
Ms. Sarah Huckabee Sanders.
She’s crisp and terse, and sometimes worse;
The lady’s no Ann Landers.
But as for now, she’s at the bow:
Ms. Sarah Huckabee Sanders.
by James Hamby
Mix a lawyer, a launderer,
A sleazy business guy;
Combine with a translator
and an ex-Soviet spy;
Stir in three Trump cronies
Who hold the most power;
Blend them well together
High in Trump Tower;
Say it was about adoption
And no other reason;
And there’s your collusion!
(With a dash of treason.)
by Jerome Betts
The new leader for UK Lib Dems
In that ruinous pile by the Thames?
A vintage Vince Cable
Who brings to the table
Mature clout like some Château d’Yquems!
by Dan Campion
He’s elbowed Rod, he’s kneeing Jeff,
He’s whispering with Vlad.
He’s staring down his coach, the ref,
The sports reporters. Sad!
He used to dribble, rebound, pass,
And shoot within his range.
Now way outside it, he’s an ass
His own teammates think strange.
It’s time to trade this guy, for sure.
Which franchise, though, would take him?
And then, who’ll keep the game astir
When gods of Sport forsake him?
by Susan McLean
Body and soul are fed by wheat,
the Bible tells us. Jesus ate
wheat bread, so that’s what we must eat
for him to transubstantiate.
Low-gluten wafers there may be,
so long as they have wheat as well,
but Jesus can’t be gluten free.
You celiacs can go to hell.
by Chris O’Carroll
So the Russians have dirt
That could help put some hurt
On the Hillary Clinton campaign?
Exclaims Junior Don,
“I love it.” Game on.
Screw ethics. Team Trump stands to gain.
When the press blows the whistle,
Don sneers a dismissal:
Reports about Russia are “lies.”
He’s a well-tutored youth
Whose disdain for the truth
Defines the Trump brand—no surprise.
At the art of denying
What he’s done and decrying
“Fake news,” Senior Don’s the big star.
No one can surpass
That supreme horse’s ass,
But the road apple didn’t fall far.
by Cody Walker
Nadal’s
comeback stalls—
and zut, it’s Gilles!
For realz.
And now things look dreary
in a hurry
for Andy Murray!
(Bam: Sam Querrey.)
We’re back
on serve—but no!—
there goes Novak!
Shoulder? Elbow?
Federer,
as everer,
is betterer.
by Joanna Bird
Things might have been different—
The outcome more sane—
If the name that was chosen
Instead was Bremain.
by David Hedges
When Bill and Monica were hot
The coverage was round the clock.
The Trump and Russia tryst is caught
Between a hard place and a rock.
Reporters work for billionaires,
Which puts a yoke around their necks.
There’s little interest in affairs
That don’t dish up some sizzling sex.
So what if Donald rigged the vote
And danced as Russia pulled his strings?
He’s wearing Reagan’s Teflon coat
And Putin’s Kevlar underthings.
by David Hedges
When Agata Kornhauser-Duda
Gave Donald an offhand saluda
After greeting his wife
As the love of her life
He scowled like a scorned barracuda.
by Mae Scanlan
Governor Christie closed beaches. It seems
Constituents gave up their holiday dreams,
While Christie, with typical insolent tone,
Was soaking up rays on a beach of his own.
He lorded it over the other poor jerks:
“Try running for governor if you want perks.”
by Robert Schechter
Pain and heartache,
woe, despair,
all at once
you lose your hair,
friends desert you,
others die,
love, it seems,
is just a lie.
You tell yourself,
“I will be strong!
Hope awaits!”
But you are wrong.
Find a bridge.
It’s time to jump.
The president
is Donald Trump.
