The King of Fraud thinks he is god.
No law or rule can touch him.
Amazing how the lurching clod
persuades his mass to clutch him.
His wispy wig and paint-on tan
are awkward and appalling.
He does his thinking on the can
where his great bulk is sprawling.
He bleeds his friends, destroys his foes,
and lies to every side.
The last time that he touched his toes,
was back with his first bride.
He squandered millions on bad deals,
black-listed by most banks.
But Russian mobsters heard his squeals,
and now he owes them thanks.
We’ll be paying off his loans
for several generations,
scraping meat off mercy’s bones
for his gross machinations.
King of Fraud, your throne is gone,
been sold off for hush money.
To think they thought you were god
is sad but somewhat funny.
You’ll spend your old age in a cell
outside a prison tower.
We hope each minute there is hell.
And watch out in the shower.
