by Michael R. Burch

So unlike the brazen giant of Greek fame
With conquering limbs astride from land to land,
Showering gold, a spread-eagled strumpet stands:
A much-used trollop with a torch, whose flame
Has long since been extinguished. And her name?
“Mother of Cowards!” From her enervate hand
Soft ash descends. Her furtive eyes demand
allegiance to her pimp’s repulsive game.

“Keep, ancient lands, your wretched poor!” cries she
With scarlet lips. “Give me your hale, your whole,
Your huddled tycoons, yearning to be pleased!
The wretched refuse of your toilet hole?
Oh, never send one unwashed child to me!
I await Trump’s pleasure by the gilded bowl!”

by Ian Graham

Rocket Man and Dotard
Seek, to settle spat,
Korea diplomat.

by Cody Walker

ESPN
is bein’
uncool with Jemele Hill.
Did she kill
58 concert-goers? Or belittle Bob Corker?
Was she accused of rape in The New Yorker?

by Mae Scanlan

“I hate everybody in the White House;”
That’s the latest quote from You Know Who.
For him it obviously is not the right house,
The one on Pennsylvania Avenue.

He’s flustered and uneasy in the old house
That’s dedicated to the people’s need;
Far better he relocate to his Gold House,
And there resume his life of guile and greed.

by Julia Griffin

When Mr. Harvey Weinstein fell,
The right-wing anchors gloated;
But life was transiently hell
For those whom he’d promoted.

The men at first declined the hook,
Remembering there’d be no
Scream, without him, Sex, Lies, Thief, Cook,
King’s Speech or Tarantino;

But actresses of every age
(Especially the greater)
Quickly assailed with righteous rage
This human alligator.

One’d called him God and one’d tattooed
Her rear with his initials;
This now they vehemently rued
To spokesmen and officials.

His wife, whose every fancy frock
He’d touted from the rafters,
Departed, raising thus her stock
With those who grant the BAFTAs.

Soon Mr. Feig and Mr. Firth
Were crying shock and horror,
Declaring Mr. Weinstein’s berth
Less moral than Gomorrah,

While, through the squawking of the press,
The comics started slanging
(For where the Bee sucks, you may guess
The fruit will be low-hanging),

And all the Internet in flood,
Now one enormous lobby,
Deliriously howled for blood—
None more than brother Bobby.

For all maintain, of Hollywood,
The purest expectations,
Accepting nothing less than good:
Not even allegations.

by Ian Graham

Mariano, he calls Catalonia:
“¡Hey, Carles, I just had to phone ya!
Cos things ain’t quite clear.
¿You’ve seceded, I hear?
¿Or not? ¿Or not yet?
Well, here’s a safe bet:
If you have, then I’m not gonna let ya.
If you haven’t, I’m gonna forget ya.
Either this stops
Or I sail in the cops.”

by Julia Griffin

(pace Kipling)

On the road to Mandalay,
The dawn comes up like static,
Or, alas, a ricochet-
ing semi-automatic.

A killer gets his wishes,
And the mighty NRA
Keep mum as flying fishes,
On the road to Mandalay.

by Chris O’Carroll

If he had been a different color,
We’d get why all those people died.
How can a rich white guy be evil?
Donald Trump is mystified.

by Dan Campion

This policy passed unopposed
Because two letters got transposed.

by Orel Protopopescu

Did someone calculate the cost
of all the rolls that POTUS tossed?
Add flying Air Force One to boot—
a million dollar paper route?

by Mae Scanlan

“Trump is a moron.” The comment was Rex’s;
He soon will be back in his home state of Texas.

by Jerome Betts

“Methane emissions from cattle
are 11% higher than estimated.”
—The Guardian

Onward, cows and bullocks,
Browsing as of yore
Grass that covers Britain
Like a bright green floor.
Once it’s been digested
Gas will upwards go,
Boosting global warming
Everywhere below.

by Cody Walker

(with apologies to Robert Frost)

Some share their smokes with Billy Squier,
Some with Tom Price.
From what I’ve gathered from “The Wire,”
I hold with those who favor Squier.
But if I had a head of lice,
I think I’d walk the interstate,
And search for Dr. Thomas Price,
Who’s not so great,
And not so nice.

by Susan McLean

Is Kim Jong-Un
the Looney Tune
who’ll launch A-bombs for spite?

Or is Donald Trump
the lethal chump
who’ll do it? Either might.

Our future tense
lies in suspense.
Good night, sweet world, good night.

by Edmund Conti

José, can you see (no, I guess not, the Wall)
What so proudly we hail by the stadium’s light.
Whose broad stripes and bright stars (they were not meant for all)
Were meant for just us English-speaking and white.
And the terrorists’ glare, their bombs bursting in air
Gave proof that with ISIS, you’d better stay there.
Yes, stay where you are and do us all a fave.
Don’t come to the land of the free and the brave.