In an interview, Trump called himself
the greatest baseball player in New York.
President-elect Donald Trump
campaigned snidely on the stump.
Scowling, contentious, uncouth,
incapable of telling the truth,
as if in a horrible life-long slump.
Each time he puts on his cleats,
he just can’t help it—he cheats.
Ignoring rules, he plays games.
He slanders, traduces, defames
while he tweets, tweets, tweets.
He tweets morning noon and night,
tweets in the dark and in the light,
tweets both in and out of season,
tweets without rhyme or reason,
being both ignorant and uptight.
He tweets when he’s stealing bases,
tweets when he’s tying his laces,
tweets when he’s stealing home,
tweets when he’s a gnome
in the dugout, making faces.
He tweets when he feels insulted,
tweets when he’s not consulted,
tweets from the top of Trump Tower,
tweets on the toilet and in the shower,
tweets tout de suite, unadulterated.
Feeling feckless and wussy,
he compensates by grabbing pussy.
Then a tweet, like a song,
no more than 140 characters long.
His wife’s a gorgeous hussy.
Like mighty Casey at the bat
or the Biblical Jehoshaphat,
Trump will tweet beyond the grave,
a lying conniving knave
who’ll tweet eternally, rat-a-tat-tat.
From here to Kingdom Come,
he’ll be eternally unwelcome,
a Royal pain in the ass,
a slithering snake in the grass
disappearing up his own rectum.