People love a dictator. Reminds them of their daddy.

He’s thinking of banana trees, as part of the illusion.

He’s begun to celebrate the fruits of his collusion.

He’s got slaves (he calls them knaves) who do his every bidding.

Some have formed a human sea wall for him (I’m not kidding).

Every time he goes down south, his cadre causes troubles.

There’s so many housed there the state population doubles.

Protective forces, drivers and his vaunted makeup pros.

Then there are the hangers-on, the faux rich and the ho’s.

Petty gangsters, mobsters, pranksters, senators and felons

gather round him like a saint and pray to taste his melons.

Far away from DC, he can stroll his course in white.

Eighteen holes-in-one, he’ll brag, ’til late into the night.

He’ll troll his acidic base in vain search for affection.

Maybe drop a hint he just might cancel next election.

What’s the use of counting votes? He’s bought himself a win.

Re-name the country Trumpland, then, and let the fun begin.