by Edmund Conti

We’re going to win the South,
Starting with the Peach State.
The Carolinas also—
Followed up with each state.

We are the new-look Dems.
We kicked out every Hippy.
We’re coming, Alabama.
Hello, y’all, Mississippi.

We’re going to win Nebraska
And states we used to cry over:
Kansas, Oklahoma
And others that we fly over.

We’re going to end the losing
To GOP/Trump mania.
We’ll add the Red and keep the Blue.
Oops, there goes Pennsylvania.

by Alfred Nicol

Remember when James Dean was all the rage?
The silent type, the awkward dinner guest.
Young people filled the cinemas, in thrall
to the rebel looking sideways at them all,
who spent his whole life going through a stage,
unable to get something off his chest.

But better him than this guy on the screen,
whose little eyes get lost behind his cheeks,
a would-be actor looking out of place,
still practicing to make an angry face,
who’s only memorized a single scene
and mouths the same lines every time he speaks.

by James Hamby

Chief of Staff:The Donald be with you.
Cabinet:And also with you.
Chief of Staff:O, let us sing His greatness all our days!
Cabinet:For it is right to give our thanks and praise!
Chief of Staff:When chaos reigned throughout our lawless land
You came and filled the vast and dreadful void.
Cabinet:You’ve built this nation up by Your own hand.
Chief of Staff:The Democrats, with whom we were annoyed,
Must even now acknowledge their own sin
In questioning a President so great.
Cabinet:Let all who breathe sing praises of Your win,
Let all who see behold our country’s fate!
We sing Your praise till every tongue confess
Your vast accomplishments, your sheer success,
And every knee in humbleness is bent
Before the glories of our President!
All:An honor and a blessing, Mr. Trump,
It is to serve Your will and kiss Your rump.

— New York Times headline, June 11, 2017

by Susan McLean

Hail, Caesar, you who are about to die
again upon the Public Theater stage,
garbed as a trumped-up president, thereby
sparking the Breitbart fanboys’ righteous rage.

Like you, an upstart crossed a Rubicon,
a would-be strongman, blessed with many wives.
When satirized in a play, he called upon
the drama’s sponsors to employ their knives.

Bank of America and Delta, who
seemed shocked that a director had the gall
to update Shakespeare, pointedly withdrew
their funding, the unkindest cut of all.

by Gail White

The tweetybird sits up at night
And tries to get his language right.
He’s nearly mastered human speech
(Though thought may linger out of reach).
In answer to opposing views
He merely squawks, “Fakenews! Fakenews!”
He knows opposing him is Sad,
Investigating him is Bad,
And somewhere near the letter F
He finds the press is too Covfefe
(More syllables? With mind intent,
He thinks Cov-fe-fe’s what he meant).
At any rate, it’s quite absurd
So just enjoy the tweetybird.

by Cody Walker

I hope there are tapes,
I hope there are tapes,
political karma, it comes in all shapes

I used to hate Comey,
but now he’s my homey,
and Lordy, I hope there are tapes

I hope there are tapes,
I hope there are tapes,
hey look, it’s Big Jimbo, behind the blue drapes

I used to hate Comey,
but now he’s my homey,
and Lordy, I hope there are tapes

by Jerome Betts

While walking in Wales, Mrs. May
Decided just which was the day
She’d complete demolition
Of Labour’s position
And sweep the sad remnants away.

It was clear no Conservative feared
This opponent whom many deemed weird,
So she made a huge bet
On the landslide she’d get
Plus a sneer at the man with the beard.

But the grey-bobbed T. M., 8th of June,
Heard the sound of a bursting balloon.
That first exit poll
Confirmed her own goal . . .
And a chance for the straw-haired buffoon?

O hubris, what grief you have cost her!
She’s in thrall now to Ulster’s A. Foster!
Neither stable nor strong,
No doubt before long
She’ll appear on the ex-PMs’ roster.

by Mark Granier

… she ain’t,
Theresa Mayn’t.

by Kathleen Naureckas

Jefferson Beauregard Sessions
refused to make any confessions.
With a drawl and a smile
he defended Trump while
he recalled all of Comey’s transgressions.

by Chris O’Carroll

Did Saudis slather him with butter
To get the nod to kneecap Qatar,
Or play him like an air guitar
To get the wink to whack Qatar?

by Dan Campion

America is great again
And all that is, is right.
We’re vindicated, fellow men,
To whitewash rule by might.

A liar’s not a liar now.
All titans tell the truth.
“Resistance” means a bloody row,
But bragging’s not uncouth.

Your taste gets no respect? Don’t fret.
They’re lowlifes, the “elite.”
No genius had a big thought yet
That won’t fit in a tweet.

We’ve heard about a Gilded Age.
The name’s an inspiration.
Let left-behinds and losers rage
As we re-gild the nation.

It’s good to breathe in soot and smoke.
The world’s warmed up: so what?
Environmental law’s a joke.
The meek can kiss our butt.

What’s truly great is, recompense
From people you despise
Through profits made at their expense
Before their very eyes—

And flipping off the Press, the Courts,
The FBI. Home free!
More caviar, served by the quart!
But not to you. Just me.

by Jerome Betts

7 May 2015: UK General Election
23 June 2016: UK EU Referendum
8 June 2017: UK General Election

They claim that wood pulp now is fighting for its throne,
A victim of the digit’s dreaded squeeze,
But in election years it more than holds it own
And costs deliverers, as well as trees.

A party worker’s task is something most would shun
When forcing flimsy paper through a slit
Far tighter than that fabled bleep-bleep of a nun
Thanks to the insulation lining it.

Dodging demented dogs is one affliction more
On garden paths, or hidden in the house,
As bits of human finger, sauced with floods of gore,
Give pleasure like a cat finds in a mouse.

Some voters, too, are hostile, snarling cheap abuse,
Or ripping up the sheet in public sight.
Irrational, emotional, confused, obtuse!
Lost souls, incapable of seeing light!

Yet still the activists dispense persuasive print,
Though some might wish for drones or other means
So those who’ve plodded through their third successive stint
Could sit the next one out in front of screens.

by Mae Scanlan

The news, in case you haven’t heard:
It’s Infrastructure Week!
It’s time, says Trump, to spread the word;
Our underpinnings creak.

It’s all the fault of Democrats,
Our rotten roads and bridges,
Our water lines and power plats
That once were so prestigious.

But Trump will reconstruct them all
Until they glow and gleam;
The finished products, large and small,
Will cap a nation’s dream.

I say, to Trump, forget the bricks,
The mortar and the stone;
The infrastructure you must fix,
Quite simply, is your own.

You need a remake, foot to hair,
Before you can pass muster;
We need to know there’s something there
Besides your tweets and bluster.

Hey, you’re the builder—get to work;
Transform the basic You.
And when you’ve changed to prince from jerk,
We’ll see what you can do.

by James Hamby

“Covfefe!” cried the Trumpersnatch
In a loud and frabjous tweet;
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack
But couldn’t deal defeat.

“O, cease your nonsense!” wailed the knight,
“Our country’s sick of you!
Compared to you George Bush seems bright!
When will your reign be through?”

The monster chortled and gyred with glee,
Then gave a manxome grin:
“I know you’re sore, but did you see
My yuge electoral win?”

“Nobody cares!” the mome raths cried,
“You are the worst of men!”
But to it all he just replied,
“Make Wonderland great again!!!”

by Daniel W. Galef

In awe at a vocabulary so beefy,
I ask: Is it “covfefe” or ‘”covfefe”’?
I humbly ask our Twitter-twit El Jefe,
Is it pronounced “covfefe” or ‘”covfefe”’?