by Joanna Bird

Things might have been different—
The outcome more sane—
If the name that was chosen
Instead was Bremain.

by David Hedges

When Bill and Monica were hot
The coverage was round the clock.
The Trump and Russia tryst is caught
Between a hard place and a rock.

Reporters work for billionaires,
Which puts a yoke around their necks.
There’s little interest in affairs
That don’t dish up some sizzling sex.

So what if Donald rigged the vote
And danced as Russia pulled his strings?
He’s wearing Reagan’s Teflon coat
And Putin’s Kevlar underthings.

by David Hedges

When Agata Kornhauser-Duda
Gave Donald an offhand saluda
After greeting his wife
As the love of her life
He scowled like a scorned barracuda.

by Mae Scanlan

Governor Christie closed beaches. It seems
Constituents gave up their holiday dreams,
While Christie, with typical insolent tone,
Was soaking up rays on a beach of his own.
He lorded it over the other poor jerks:
“Try running for governor if you want perks.”

by Robert Schechter

Pain and heartache,
woe, despair,
all at once
you lose your hair,

friends desert you,
others die,
love, it seems,
is just a lie.

You tell yourself,
“I will be strong!
Hope awaits!”
But you are wrong.

Find a bridge.
It’s time to jump.
The president
is Donald Trump.

by Mae Scanlan

Mitch McConnell has a plan,
Me oh me oh my.
It will hurt the common man,
Me oh me oh my.
With a tax cut here and a tax cut there,
Many mils, I get chills
Thinking of the low bills
For the super-wealthy clan;
Me oh me oh my.

Mitch would ram it down our throats,
Me oh me oh my.
So far they don’t have the votes,
Me oh me oh my.
With a rate hike here and a rate hike there,
Stiff the poor, swift and sure,
With a bogus health lure.
Mitch is sinking many boats;
Me oh me oh my.

Mitch is stubborn, I’m afraid,
Me oh me oh my.
He’s for scrapping Medicaid;
Me oh me oh my.
With a closed mind here and a closed mind there,
Here a wall, there a wall,
Everywhere a brick wall,
Mitch, please seek some helpful aid;
Don’t let people die!

by David Hedges

The gerrymander, like the slithy tove,
Is slightly slimy (think of Karl Rove)
And angular, an ersatz Etch-A-Sketch
Conception rendered by a scurvy wretch
Shape-shifting as he draws a line between
The hard-to-starboard types and those who lean
To port, thus making sure the hoi polloi
Stay in their place—an airtight, ironclad ploy
To maintain order in an otherwise
Untidy world, where mome raths jeopardize
The borogroves, and one-percenters scratch
Their itch for riches with a bandersnatch.

by Chris O’Carroll

Watch the world’s greatest wiz at the art of the deal
Fail to sell his own team on his team’s own repeal.
He calls their plan beautiful, calls their plan mean.
He’s as real as a cover of TIME magazine.

by James Hamby

The audio was silent,
No camera could be found,
They say that Spicey spoke;
But did he make a sound?

Most questions were not answered,
And some were met with lies—
He vanished in a huff,
But this was no surprise.

Just like the empty forest
Where trees decay and fall,
If no one’s there to hear it,
Did it occur at all?

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