by Mae Scanlan

to the tune of “Gonna Take a Sentimental Journey”

I just took a monumental journey
On Air Force One to Singapore;
‘Twas not Barack, or Hillary or Bernie,
No, it was ME! I warded off war!

This Kim Jong Un, he’s got a lot of talent;
I sized him up, like, one, two, three.
We made a deal, and he was very gallant;
I like J.U., and he likes me.

Rockets?
They’re no longer on his dockets;
I’ve got Kim in both my pockets;
These aren’t just flukes—
He’s quashing his nukes!

I’m very proud of how I have succeeded;
The Nobel Prize will soon be mine.
I’m just exactly what this country needed;
I may just be (don’t laugh) DIVINE.

by James Hamby

I said “dictator”
But I swear I’m no hater;
We all make mistakes in the booth.
I didn’t mean to suggest
Trump isn’t the best:
And I’m sorry for telling the truth.

by Bruce Bennett

He won’t invite the Eagles.
He bans the NBA.
But Justify’s a winner.
Who knows? Perhaps today

He’ll welcome to the White House
a champion with class,
and we will see him paired with
another horse’s ass.

by Orel Protopopescu

This lawsuit shouldn’t trouble any members of Trump’s base.
A hundred phony charities won’t loosen their embrace.
His troops of weary lawyers may declare in his defense:
Trump’s tragic deficits required his own benevolence.

by Edmund Conti

“You could have the best hotels in the world right there.”—Trump to Kim

There’s a small hotel
In a place like Hell
I wish you two were there together

There’s a place to tweet
One room bright and neat
Where you can comb your hair together

Looking through the window
You can see a new Trump Tower
What a sign of power! Yours, mine, our.

When the ocean breeze
Says you’re going to freeze
You’ll smile and both say “cheese” together.

by Dan Campion

Pardon me, bud,
Is that the Mar-a-Lago choo choo?
Track four-to-nine?
Pal, just levy a fine.
I can afford
To board the Mar-a-Lago choo choo.
I’ve got my fare.
Prosecute if you dare.

You leave the Lincoln Bedroom ’bout a quarter to four,
Read your Twitter feed and then you’re out the front door.
Dinner full of starches
Under golden arches,
You’ll get there by limousines, not cell block marches.

When you hear the Secret Service burble last straw,
Then you know for sure that you’re above common law.
Shovel all the chips in;
Let clowns get their quips in.
Whoo, whoo, Mar-a-Lago pardon’s our draw.

There’s gonna be
A certain pardon at the White House,
Up-my-sleeve ace
I used to call “a disgrace.”
Justice may weep
Until I put the old gal to sleep.
So Mar-a-Lago choo choo,
Like throne bearers in Rome,
Mar-a-Lago choo choo,
Won’t you choo choo me home?

by Julia Griffin

(with apologies to Tennyson)

“White House press secretary Sarah Huckabee Sanders called the remark ‘vile and vicious.’ On Wednesday, [Samantha] Bee again said she ‘crossed a line.’ She admitted she used the phrase many times, hoping to ‘reclaim it.’ ‘The problem is, many women have heard that word at the worst moments of their lives,’ Bee said. ‘A lot of them don’t want that word reclaimed, they want it gone. And I don’t blame them. … Many men were also offended by use of the word. I do not care about that.”—CBS News

Censure and brouhaha,
And one clear call for me!
But may there be no moaning from Ms. Barr
If I’m still on TV:

Unless the USA is all asleep,
With no attention span,
You surely won’t compare me with that creep,
Racist Roseanne.

No way. I’ve never blamed
The women who piled on:
A lot of them don’t want that word reclaimed,
They want it gone;

To them I send apologies (not men).
Sorry. Now please don’t whine;
The Pilot’s aired long since—I’m here again.
Who says I’ve crost the line?

by Orel Protopopescu

Let them dig! The world will see
there’s no charge that sticks to me.

List the people that I stiffed,
all the titled toffs I miffed,
all the wives who loved my dough…
(Few were mine, but who’s to know?)
I got ego. I got id.
I forget the stuff I did.

Where’s my sin against mankind?
I’m pre-pardoned. Never mind.

Drag your kids through hill and dale?
You should lose them. Go to jail.
Laws are made to be enforced.
DACA, caca, eat my borscht.
(Not that I like Russian stuff.
Stop the witch hunt. That’s enough!)

No one grills me. I decline.
I’m above all laws but mine.

by Mae Scanlan

Lousy pickins’; hatred quickens;
Decent people takin’ lickins’;
These Republicans are chickens;
This plot thickens; this plot sickens.

by Gregory Palmerino

D   U   M

P   T    R

U   M   P

by Dan Campion

The CDC says: Ticks! Beware.
It’s time to spritz on DEET.
I spray my socks, my shirt, my hair,
Check arms and legs and feet.
But still, I feel a tickle here,
A micro-tickle there.
These nervous tics will teem, I fear,
Till frost nips at the air.

by Daniel Galef

“A televangelist has asked his followers to donate money so he can buy a $54m private jet.”—The Independent

Jesus wants you to send me money—
Gospel truth, that’s what He said.
Sure, it sounds a little funny,
But you can’t take it with ya when you’re dead.

Pennies from Heaven ain’t nothin’ to Jesus,
And, baby, when He reigns, it pours.
Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s,
But render unto me what is yours.

The Lord ain’t a loan shark—He spoke in my dreams:
Yeshua-siree! You’ll rake it in, He said,
Not like Old Egypt, with their pyramid schemes
That left poor Pharaoh in the red.

He told me to tell you to honor your mother
He told me to tell you to kill your brother
He told me to tell you to turn your cheek
And he told me the Earth, it will go to the meek

But mostly he wants you to get out your wallets,
You saints and you sinners, innkeepers and harlots,
Gold-girdled seraphs ensconced in effulgence,
Flip open your checkbooks—indulge my indulgence.

If Jesus didn’t want you to give me your dough
He’d show us a sign, like a burning receipt.
Do you see a sign? Oh? What’s that? No?
Then sign! (And make sure those zeroes are neat.)

The Lord ain’t Santa or the Easter Bunny;
Jesus wants you to send me money.
Give me your loaves and your fishes, he said,
And I shall multiply my bread!

Pennies from Heaven ain’t nothin’ to Jesus,
And, baby, when He reigns, it pours.
Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s,
But render unto me what is yours.

Jesus wants you to send me money—
Gospel truth, that’s what He said.
Sure, it sounds a little funny,
But you can’t take it with ya when you’re dead.

by Mae Scanlan

The news of the day was a lollapalooza:
POTUS is pardoning Dinesh D’Souza,
Then Martha Stewart, Blagojevich too,
Which sends an encouraging signal clear through
To Cohen and Flynn, and some others who face
Considerable time in a monitored space.
Just when you think that things couldn’t get worse,
They quickly do. It’s the Trumpian Curse.

by Edmund Conti

FBI attempting to unshred Michael Cohen shredded documents.—news item

A technological wonder
That makes you wonder whether
What man has put asunder
The Bureau can put together.

by James Hamby

Trump heard his minions chant “Nobel!”
And felt his chest would burst,
But he forgot that winning it
Means doing something first.