by Cody Walker
(with apologies to Lewis Carroll)
He thought he saw an Allegation
Stop him in his tracks:
He looked again, and found it was
A Hammer? Sickle? Axe?
“The trail leads back to Putin, friends!
The cash! The email hacks!”
He thought he saw a Middleman
Who hadn’t yet been paid:
He looked again, and found it was
Hot Damn! a Predawn Raid.
“We happened by the neighborhood,”
Said Mueller. Huh. Well played.
by Orel Protopopescu
(with apologies to Robert Frost)
Some say the world will end with Trump,
Some say Jong-un.
From ways his brain plaques tend to clump,
I hold with those who favor Trump.
But if he’s not a total loon,
I think I know enough of fear
To say his red-state twin, Jong-un,
Might shoot our sphere
Over the moon.
by Orel Protopopescu
Down dooby doo down down,
Vladdie won’t you please, pretty please come ‘round.
Had to leave this sad town, I’m so blue,
‘Cause breaking up is hard to do.
Don’t take our deal away from me.
Don’t leave my bank account in misery.
They made me sign that bill!
My fingers moved against my will.
I can’t tell Congress what we’ve been through.
Vladdie, darling, we’ll start anew.
Tell me, how can it be?
We started out so well, so tell me where’d you put your love for me?
I beg you, please, please, don’t say goodbye,
So sad you tabbed me “total weakness” guy.
Bad Congress forced my hand.
You must know that you’re still my man!
Down dooby doo down down,
Vladdie won’t you please, pretty please come ‘round. …
Even West Virginia made me blue,
‘Cause breaking up is hard to do.
by Mae Scanlan
Anthony Scaramucci
Is all smoochie
After President Trump hires him,
Talking about how he loves Trump and admires him.
But Anthony Scaramucci
Then becomes a vicious poochie,
Tearing apart the White House staff,
Which shows how quickly the wheat separates from
The chaff.
Anthony Scaramucci
Probably wears garb from Gucci,
But the manner in which a man covers his chassis
Doesn’t make a man classy.
by Edmund Conti
Here lies Donald Trump
All over the place
Campaigning on the stump
On TV in your face.
The lies of Donald Trump
Are they little? Are they white?
They’re big, they’re black, go bump
In the middle of the night.
Here lies Donald Trump
Who’s fallen far from grace
Behold that graceless lump
In his final West Wing place.
by John Ridland
(To the tune of “Glow Worm,” as sung by the Mills Brothers)
Tweet, little Trumpster, twitter, twitter
Tweet us the gold that makes you glitter
Safe in the gilt of Mar-a-Lago
Tweet at the gentleman from Chicago
Twitter all night in your pajamas
Fairytale tweets about the Obamas
Twitter the “fake facts” on which you live
Not any real alternative
Tweet all you want, our little Twitterist
Tweet us the one that makes you bitterest
How a Reality vaudevillean
Lost to a woman by three million
How all the newspapers but two
Came out for her and not for you
Then the Electors kissed your—feet
Tweet, little Tweetster, tweet.
Tweet, little Twitterer, tweet and twitter
Tweet us the laughs that make us titter
Tweet with a roar like a lyin’ lion
Tweet like your presidency is dyin’
Twitter your twitters more and more manic
Twitter goin’ down on your Titanic
Deep on the bottom of the ocean
You can tweet twitters in slow motion
When you are sunk, oh how we’ll miss you,
Still, while the octopussies kiss you,
When you are grabbed in a watery grave
Yours is a life we couldn’t save
You’ll have been trumped by your own twitters,
Runt of the presidential litters
You can stay on in the big White House
As Vladimir Putin’s pet mouse.
Tweet, little twitterer, tweet
Tweet, little twitterer, tweet
Tweet, little twitterer, tweet
Tweet, little twitterer, tweet. Tweet.
by Orel Protopopescu
(From “From Massages to ‘Pawicures,’” New York Times, July 2017)
No need to park your well-bred pet
with friends or sitters or your vet
while you sail off to distant ports.
Now there’s a choice of pet resorts.
Want pawicures and rooms with views
and cams that give you real-time news
of Fido’s facials, hand-plucked hairs?
The gods of commerce heard your prayers.
But could they soothe the fat wolf PACs
whose polished claws fillet our backs?
What spa tames howling demagogues?
Not one? We’re going to the dogs!
by Chris O’Carroll
You Boy Scouts are loyal, unlike my A.G.,
Who skipped out and let them sic Mueller on me.
My crew has to serve with complete loyalty,
From Cabinet minions to wife #3.
The tales I could tell about parties at sea!
You Boy Scouts are trustworthy. You can trust me.
by Mae Scanlan
The briefings (press) are quite a mess
For media geese and ganders,
Since at the dais holding sway is
Sarah Huckabee Sanders.
She’s now preferred to Sean, we’ve heard,
Though both can raise our danders;
This gal is cool and no one’s fool,
Ms. Sarah Huckabee Sanders.
She’s zipper-lipped—she sticks to script,
She’s not one who meanders;
She makes her mark with snippy snark,
Ms. Sarah Huckabee Sanders.
No pix allowed (cuts down the crowd);
She slings the slurs and slanders
With great finesse. How Trump must bless
Ms. Sarah Huckabee Sanders.
She’s crisp and terse, and sometimes worse;
The lady’s no Ann Landers.
But as for now, she’s at the bow:
Ms. Sarah Huckabee Sanders.
by James Hamby
Mix a lawyer, a launderer,
A sleazy business guy;
Combine with a translator
and an ex-Soviet spy;
Stir in three Trump cronies
Who hold the most power;
Blend them well together
High in Trump Tower;
Say it was about adoption
And no other reason;
And there’s your collusion!
(With a dash of treason.)
by Jerome Betts
The new leader for UK Lib Dems
In that ruinous pile by the Thames?
A vintage Vince Cable
Who brings to the table
Mature clout like some Château d’Yquems!
by Dan Campion
He’s elbowed Rod, he’s kneeing Jeff,
He’s whispering with Vlad.
He’s staring down his coach, the ref,
The sports reporters. Sad!
He used to dribble, rebound, pass,
And shoot within his range.
Now way outside it, he’s an ass
His own teammates think strange.
It’s time to trade this guy, for sure.
Which franchise, though, would take him?
And then, who’ll keep the game astir
When gods of Sport forsake him?
by Susan McLean
Body and soul are fed by wheat,
the Bible tells us. Jesus ate
wheat bread, so that’s what we must eat
for him to transubstantiate.
Low-gluten wafers there may be,
so long as they have wheat as well,
but Jesus can’t be gluten free.
You celiacs can go to hell.
by Chris O’Carroll
So the Russians have dirt
That could help put some hurt
On the Hillary Clinton campaign?
Exclaims Junior Don,
“I love it.” Game on.
Screw ethics. Team Trump stands to gain.
When the press blows the whistle,
Don sneers a dismissal:
Reports about Russia are “lies.”
He’s a well-tutored youth
Whose disdain for the truth
Defines the Trump brand—no surprise.
At the art of denying
What he’s done and decrying
“Fake news,” Senior Don’s the big star.
No one can surpass
That supreme horse’s ass,
But the road apple didn’t fall far.
by Cody Walker
Nadal’s
comeback stalls—
and zut, it’s Gilles!
For realz.
And now things look dreary
in a hurry
for Andy Murray!
(Bam: Sam Querrey.)
We’re back
on serve—but no!—
there goes Novak!
Shoulder? Elbow?
Federer,
as everer,
is betterer.