by David Hedges

Shall I compare thee to a pompous ass?
Thou art ten thousand thousand times the more
Disgusting and degenerate—no class!
Some on the left would label thee a whore
Though that demeans the babes thou once employ’d
In Moscow at the bid of Vladimir,
Who taped the golden shower thou so enjoy’d,
And others who stay silent out of fear.
‘Tis apt to see thy gold complexion dimm’d
By E. Jean What’s-her-name, on whom thou pil’d
A dump-truck’s worth of epithets untrimm’d
And otherwise besmirch’d—hell’s-fire, revil’d!
Mighteth there lurk some faint redeeming grace
Behind thy smirking Gatorade’d face?