Confessions of Photochopped Chump

                             Photochopped Chump

It's rotten luck that we  live in the age of Trump

because, anatomically, he's the rump,

the bald boob who wears a wild yellow wig,

not so much a stag as a poltroon pig

with a porcine paunch and fat florid face,

whose neck disappears without a trace,
at least in the cropped photochopped picture
in which he looks like the bovine du jour,

enveloped completely by his sagging jowls;

who, instead of speaking calmly, growls

and habitually, while growling, frowns

as if the press and the rest of us are clowns

who dare to laugh at the president-elect,

showing his and the office no respect,

dissing us rudely as dumb clucks,

or, in Yiddish, stumpik schmucks.

He's a self-confessed pussy grabber,

a mouthing entrepreneurial voyeur

who embraces competing bathing beauties.

While they're getting out of their undies,

he slyly paid visits to their dressing room

(like to the blushing bride goes the horny groom).

He's the pageant sponsor, asserting his right—

the droit du seigneur on the wedding night—

groping and grabbing, stealing a cheap feel.

For twenty years he was the biggest Big Wheel  

at the Miss USA and the Miss Universe

pageants where he was certainly not averse

to pinching cheeks and filching fanny squeezes:

He was the idol of all the rich lustful geezers. 

When he'a alone in his Trump Tower,

inciters say, he takes an orgiastic Golden Shower,

he and his guests urinating on each other, 

a (li)quid pro quo, if not a measure for measure.
He's rumored to have gold-showered in Moscow,
the KGB arranging it and showing him how.

He told the press, "That’s a contradiction in terms

because I have a phobia about germs."

Is a Golden Shower his idea of bliss,

or only arrested toddlers' group piss?

"Mexican immigrants will be our downfall.

The answer, my fellow Americans, is a wall

the spics themselves will end up paying for

without our having to say por favor.

I’m not prejudiced against wetbacks

any more than I am against blacks,

though the government accused me

of refusing to practice equality

by not renting to African-Americans,

who I preferred not to have as tenants."

Out of the thousands of non-black tenants I've had,

not one of them was a drugged deadbeat dad,

not one of them,  including mucho Puerto Ricans, 

and even  the very last of the Mohicans,
who I called Tonto, who was a credit to his race,

most of which had tragically lost face  

on the reservation,  drinking  themselves to death.

But not Tonto, with the alcohol free breath—

sober as a Witness during Prohibition—

he knew like a saint how to resist temptation.

Though accused by the NCAA and Urban League

of not respecting their Kwanzaa and wampumpeag--

I firmly declined to accept wampum as rent

or to believe multiculturalism was heaven-sent.

I recognize blacks as bonafide humans,

but I draw the line with Muslims and Mexicans.

I believe a wall's the best possible answer 

to immigration, that malignant cancer."

"Hey, so I like to snatch a quick feel.

So what the hell is the big fucking deal?

You think they care, these two-timing broads?

Nine out of ten are ball-busting frauds.

In business and sex, it’s all the same.

Get involved only if you can play the game

or you’ll get screwed sure as shooting

and it’s not just my horn I’m tooting.

Us guys talk like this to one another.

It’s not the way we’d talk to mother,

or to the wife either, like my dear Melania,

who’s not a witch from Transylvania,

as some gliberals want you to believe.

She’s not a high-priced hooker up my sleeve.

Just because she’s beautiful doesn’t mean

she didn’t, to get ahead, use the old bean,

and the daughter is just like her mother.

Ivanka never gets in a pother.

She’s brainy and beautiful with long legs 

I paternally nicker-named her daddy longlegs

as I dubbed her bust my hope chest.

You can label that—for all I care—incest,

and call my economics trickle-down spittle

and my politics alt-right piddle,

but I’m president-elect and you’re not.

You’re just Democrats  who've gone to pot."

"I do not drink, smoke, or pay taxes.

My patriotism wanes and waxes.

I always proudly salute Old Glory,

but dodging the draft’s another story.

I got four deferments during the war

for killing’s something I deplore.

I’m not a pacifist, no crap like that.

I’ll bomb Isis to hell in no time flat,

and won’t take shit from Red China,

that teeming, scheming communist vagina."

"Yes, I’m a bundle of contradictions

about who you can’t make predictions.

I'll say something crazy one minute

and the next something just the opposite.

I’m  often accused of being a born liar,

but I’m the incarnation of pants-on-fire.

I’m a seventy-year-old hyperactive

kid whose muddled mind is like a sieve. 

I’m a nutty television personality,

who personifies intellectual paucity,

a glaring lack of class and gravitas,

always sitting on my electronic ass

like on the reality show The Apprentice 

where I acted like I'm rich as Croesus,  

firing failures over and over again, 

a mad sadist who loves to inflict pain."

"My critics claim that starting in 1995—

though hardly an accountant is now alive—

that I got a nineteen-year tax exemption

and haven’t paid a penny since then. 

That may or then again, may not be true, 

but I think there's another reason too.

Releasing my tax returns would reveal

that my vaunted billions are not real

but figments of my financial imagination,

like a president-elect without the inauguration,

or like my celebrated golden hairpiece
on which I have a permanent lease
and with which my corpse, flashing the bird,
will someday gravely be interred.

When the wind lifts it off my bean,

my scalp, like my tax returns, should not be seen.

My tax returns' untimely release

would expose me like an empty codpiece,

so to speak, for size means a whole lot,

whether it’s a penis, fingers, or a bald spot."

Yes, he's the boss who throws his weight around,

who grinds his employees into the ground,

exercising his rights not only as a man

but as an American free-market fan.

With him there's not only no hair there,

there's glaringly no there there either.

In the end, at bottom, his sagging jowls

move no more than his loose bowels. 

                                   Robert Forrey