by Donald A. Ranard

I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you will assume,
Or, believe me, you will be in big, big, trouble,
Because this nation is in a mess, a very, very big mess,
And I alone can fix it (I have a very high IQ).
My fellow Americans, help me make America great again,
Or I’ll punch you in the face.
America needs to heel—wait, make that heal,
Don’t worry, I know how to spell, I just do it my way,
And I know all the words, all the good words,
My vocabulary is amazing. Unpresidented.

Do I contradict myself? OK, I contradict myself.
I am large—yuuuge!—I inflame multitudes.
No one has bigger crowds than me. Why?
OK, I’ll tell you why. Empathy.
There’s never been anybody more empathetic
(And with a very high IQ). You? You’re pathetic,
Low energy. Sad! Look at me! My doctor goes,
“I’ve never seen anybody like you. You have the lowest
Blood pressure ever, like 100 over something.
You’re like twenty-two (and you have a very high IQ)!”

I tweet my barbaric yawps over the websites of the world.
In the faces of men and women, I see … me!
I love these people, they’re incredible,
You can do anything you want, no sweat,
Grab them by their assets.

by Phil Huffy

You can smoke now, California
Our hats we doff to you
What was it that Sinatra said?
“Doobie Doobie, doo”

But who’d have thought such conduct
would ever be condoned?
As Dylan waxed, poetic,
“Everybody must get stoned”

by Chris O’Carroll

Wave the flag for segregation,
And for slave states that secede.
Bring the federal hammer down on
Any state with legal weed.

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.

by Orel Protopopescu

Should old deceivers be forgot
and never brought to mind?
Should we forget the lies we heard
and the truths by tweets maligned?

Illegal votes for Hillary,
phony calls from heads of state,
tax cuts that hurt the president,
he whose falsehoods make us great?

For auld Trump syne, my friends,
for the chicks he never groped,
let’s smash that cup, reality,
for the fools he rope-a-doped.

by Edmund Conti

It’s time, said the Mouth,
For my Christmas vacation.
The Donald went south
And so did the nation.

by Julia Griffin

MARGARET THATCHER’S AVERSION TO PANDAS REVEALED BY DECLASSIFIED PAPERS … Her hostility towards the animals was in stark contrast to her readiness to meet the disgraced ex-president Richard Nixon, despite civil servants warning her off. — The Guardian

Judging by her memoranda,
Margaret Thatcher scorned the panda,
Much preferring Richard Nixon,
Who had fewer flies or ticks on,
And had ever more to do
With bamboozling than bamboo.

by James Hamby

We see you playing golf behind the truck.
With cover-ups, it seems, you have no luck.

by Orel Protopopescu

The president is peevish.
The president is cross.
So now he blames Jeff Sessions
for Alabama’s loss.

What numbskull made him AG
before his term expired?
What loser thought of that one?
For him, two words: “You’re fired!”

by Mae Scanlan

As a dreary year ends
There’s a wee bit of sparkle
And levity, friends;
Her name’s Meghan Markle.

And here’s to the fellow
She’s planning to marry.
He’s cool and he’s mellow;
His name is Prince Harry.

Their humor and flair
Bring a smile to our faces;
In these times of despair
They’re a welcome oasis.

by Timothy Steele

Our planet’s small; the universe is vast.
Yet size is not as simple as it sounds:
The tax bill that the GOP just passed
Shows us that greed and folly know no bounds.

by Bruce Bennett

OVID’S EXILE TO THE REMOTEST MARGINS OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE REVOKED:
Rome city council overturns banishment of ‘one of the greatest
poets’ more than 2,000 years after Augustus forced him to leave…
— The Guardian

Ovid’s no longer banished. What a joy!
He’s been exonerated. That’s our boy!
However long it takes Paris or Rome
or New York City, poets can come home.

No longer must they rot on foreign turf,
or stare in anguish at a pounding surf.
Once more they’re citizens where they belong,
and can indulge in city life and song.

Once more they’re welcome home, although they’re dead.
So what? This time they will not face the dread
of banishment. They could write what they please—
if it were not too late, by centuries!

True poets everywhere, have heart and hope.
Though trials are many, you must learn to cope.
Wherever you’ve been exiled, just stay true.
At last your country may come home to you.

by Jerome Betts

British passports will be navy blue after Brexit,
says Home Office. — The Guardian

Oh, thank you, Brexit-lovers—
Not those who say Remain—
For burgundy-blotched covers
True-blue and proud again!

How well they’ll warm the nation
Those passports lettered gold
In global isolation
And economic cold!

by Scott Mahler

The Republican Party
Supporting Roy Moore was not too smart-y.
But the men who love children are all smiles.
The GOP: The Grand Old Pedophiles.

by Edmund Conti

It was one of those days
When a guy just needs praise,
Adulation and fawning and flattery.
When your deeds all amaze,
You just need all that praise
Like charging (if you are a battery).

So the duly anointed
(Those guys you appointed)
Are eager and ready and willing
To kowtow and grovel
In ways that are novel
With various tidbits of shilling

But it does give you pause,
All these bits of applause
As you glow in your underlings’ treatment.
Are you really as great
As these toadies all state
Or are they all full of excretement?