“[Stephanie] Clifford also described her sexual encounters with the businessman, saying … “The sex was nothing crazy. … It was textbook generic. … I can definitely describe his junk perfectly, if I ever have to.”—In Touch magazine
He’d endlessly brag how he looked on a mag—
A regular treat for humanity;
His meanest remarks were directed at sharks:
He hates them (except for Sean Hannity).
Just picture the scene: the sharks on the screen,
With me in the briefest of nighties,
And hot in pursuit, presidential but cute,
Himself, in petite tighty-whities.
It got kind of dark and we watched some more shark:
It never got really much swoonier.
The act was generic (remember, there’s Eric)
Not crazy (but still there’s Don Junior).
He promised I’d be, like, a star on TV,
Then he asked: “Will you sign me a print of you?”
I felt the whole drama just clamoured for karma:
And that’s why I’m giving this interview.
“House Republicans coalesce behind plan to avert shutdown” —Politico.com
Same old shenanigan—
playing kick-the-can again—
Hallelujah, give the leaders praise!
If we just delay to tax
health devices, Cadillacs,
we can function for another twenty days.
And as for DACA, say,
we should march those kids away,
only seven hundred thousand, more or less.
We will raise a mighty shout
as we ship the Dreamers out,
and that settles up the immigration mess.
Do we need a border wall?
No, frankly, not at all,
and the Democrats oppose it to a man.
Leave security aside,
give them CHIP to soothe their pride;
let’s play another game of kick-the can.
From deep within the bowels of Diamond Head,
an oracle proclaims: Looks like we’re dead! Soon missiles will be arcing through our skies. (There’s little hope they’re headed for Van Nuys.)
Radiation, spawned by North Korea, will cause hysteria and diarrhea. Quite seriously, this is not a hoax. Stop what you’re doing and find shelter, folks.
Bikinied bombshells leave the beaches bare,
and handsome hunks hightail it out of there.
Which leaves what? Wrinkled prunes, like you and I.
Aloha, love. Goodbye. Hello. Goodbye.
Trump passed his cognitive test,
And that is good,
But one thing, I fear,
Is misunderstood:
We’re not so much worried
About how many words he can retrieve,
But if he can tell the difference
Between what’s real and make-believe.
Beyond brisk,
a brutal blast—
Labrador landed
in Boston last week.
I brace my brittle body
against the brunt
of wind abridging
breath. Beneath boots,
sidewalk snow crackles
like broken vertebrae
but icy broomstick legs
brush and shuffle still.
This breakneck day
my bronchial bray:
“Oh, for Brazil!”
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.
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.
