I find myself in a banana republic
near the end of the journey of my life,
without a paddle, up the trumped-up crick
in which I feel a whole lot like Lot’s wife,
looking back at Sodom and Gamorrah
and seeing Donald-the-lying-low-life
radiating a kind of blank aura
like a brainless, blond toupeed leprechaun
who owns nine hotels in Glocca Morra
and a golf course in Scotland located on
mysteriously shifting sand dunes
that, like him, lie like a son-of-a-gun.
A combative crook, he chronically impugns
competitors as born losers, as chickens,
as contemptible penniless poltroons.
The Donald hates foreigners like the dickens,
especially if they’re immigrant Muslims
or those lazy welfare Puerto Rickens.
Himself, he’s small-handed and avoids gyms,
a greedy pussy-grabbing eroticon
whose pursy mouth pouts like he’s singing hymns.
The Donald foreshadows an evolution
among sober collectors of amethyst,
a cultural throwback to Harpagon,
a miser posing as a philanthropist,
a Dixiecrat posing as a Republican,
a hyperactive posing as a Buddhist,
a teetotaler tipsy on “Yes, I can!”
An MPHL or Male Pattern Hair Loss,
a born-again, narcissistic also-ran,
who is strung out on ear-waxed dental floss,
who won’t release an f-ing tax return,
because it might reveal nothing but loss,
that size matters because it will turn
people off or on, like a dumb light switch,
exposing him as no eagle but a tern
skittishly skipping along the shore, which
ever way the tide is running, snatching
tiny hatchlings that receding waves ditch.
He’s a yellow-headed tern, catching
small fry napping, wrapped up in his towers,
heavily leveraged, thus ratcheting
up the losses of those he embowers
with false promises of a big dividend
compounded quarterly, like spring showers,
the gentle rains of heaven that send
the shoots up and the stock market flying
to his trump towers that shake and bend
and that finally crash and lie dying,
or limp along sickly and awkwardly
as I myself now am, gamely trying
trinitarily to hopscotch from three
terza rima stanzas to another,
as Dante Alighieri did facilely,
but whom Donald the marketing major
considered much better dead than read,
covering up like a quick comb over.
That being said, there’s still something sacred
about the number three for Presbyterians,
as well as Mormons living and dead,
in fact for almost all kinds of Christians
whether in heaven, purgatory, or hell,
with only Unitarian exceptions.
Donald’s a Presbyterian who can’t spell,
but by dumbing down verses from Matthew
he hides his money under a bushel.
Who’s to say what is false and what is true?
But if we have a Presbyter and Mormon,
Donald and Mitt, as numbers one and two,
who’s to say which of them’s not a moron?
We’ll have a damned nation of altered states
when the elephant reverts to mastodon.
The Mormons with their transcribed golden plates,
the Presbyters with their degrees and money—
in spite of differences, they’re soulmates.
The Donald with pussy and Playboy bunny,
Mitt with odd doctrines and covenants,
who barely smiles and is rarely funny.
With no wanderlust or ants in his pants,
Mitt prefers Salt Lake City to Paris
and the Book of Mormon to reel romance.
At night, he knows just where the North Star is,
that’s how he finds his moral bearings,
just as GPS tells him where his car is.
Some macho men may like to wear earrings
and others may prefer same sex partners
in spite of the strait world’s sneering jeerings.
From gray seniors down to kindergartners,
males should be males and females females.
Don’t confuse Bloomingdale’s with Hart Schaffner’s.
Don’t confuse male buttocks with bunny tails.
Don’t confuse Tom Jones with Liberace.
Don’t confuse small fry with Baluga whales.
Don’t confuse Carroll O’Connor with Archie.
Don’t confuse Jean Stapleton with Edith.
Don’t confuse the U.S.A. with oligarchy.
Still, we’re stuck with the American myth,
we’re stuck with the Donald if not the Mitt,
we’re stuck with some kooky American kith.
We’ve politically stepped deep in shit,
Republican shit construed as constipated,
though they will be the last to admit it,
religion and politics conflated,
the “You saids” and “Thou saiths,”
digitally, demonically prated.
Under the sway of gay ghosts and wroth wraiths,
we’re stuck with the collective psychosis
and chosenness of the Abrahamic faiths,
as if, under the spell of hypnosis,
they don’t believe in global warming,
but do devoutly in heavenly bliss.
American refugees will be swarming
to port cities, trying to escape
from the chaos and the alarming
heat by sleeping on the fire escape
or with the spiders in the basement,
sealing the windows with scotch tape.
Rationed strictly by the government,
air conditioners become rare as hen’s teeth
with Carrier making them seem heaven-sent.
Showing there was nothing he wasn’t beneath,
the Donald’s tax returns will probably show
he invested in AC’s, lying in his teeth
when he said he jawboned the c.e.o.
to not hurt Indiana’s economy
by moving 1000 jobs to Mexico.
The bowtie twerp Will denies responsibility
for the Donald, implying a Democrat
is whom to blame for Reality TV.
Trump’s First Lady, the regal pussycat,
an alleged illegal immigrant
and former high-priced call-girl aristocat,
a slim, sexy, Slavic, sloe-eye transplant,
is as unlike First Ladies Nancy, Barb,
and Laura as caviar is unlike eggplant
or Queen Anne’s Lace unlike Ruby rhubarb.
As Nobel Krugman warns us, we now live
in a banana republic where they barb-
ecue you first and then stick in the shiv.
Robert Forrey
