Death toll now tops nine-eleven.
Settin’ up spare cots in heaven.
Good thing Trump kept numbers down.
He should wear a golden crown.
Maybe a red cape velour,
on each arm a gorgeous whore.
On a pulpit made of gold.
He’s not fat. He’s not old.
Lies ! Lies ! Rolling in.
Fake news is the eighth damn sin.
Pay no heed to what he’ll shout.
Networks parse the whole truth out.
All his extras are on script,
reality stretched and chipped.
Only Fauci can be trusted.
Afraid someday he’ll be dusted,
Doctor Phil put in his place,
someone with a t.v. face.
Only pundits on the right
can be trusted in this fight.
Please don’t listen to the libs.
They will only tell you fibs.
His words are the only truth
in our isolation booth.
Trust your leader. Trust your king.
Only he can stop this thing.
And if we’re on the road to hell ,
he’ll ensure you that is swell.
Millions could die, I suppose.
No skin off his orange nose.
