Rotund king in gold bodysuit enters right,
tips his hair, tells a few one-liner lies, exits left,
very slowly, down a small ramp, trips, rolls offstage.
Four elderly white men in turtle suits march in, singing:
” Our king is a good man who hates bad protestors,
who’ll team up with Q to undo all molesters.
If you vote against him, you’re worse than wet worms.
Your house will soon be sprayed with pandemic germs.”
They exit, slowly, right, toward a sign that reads “SWAMP.”
Rotund king reemerges, plumps into a large gold throne.
Attorney General dances a shuffle before him in a cat suit.
He licks the milk the king has left him in a golden bowl, pauses, sings:
” Our king can’t be bothered with things like elections.
He’s too busy making his golf club selections.
There is no pandemic. It’s all an illusion.
Now I must get back to my Russian collusion.”
He huffs off in enormous cat’s feet, heads to the right.
Rotund king spray paints his face, picks up his gold phone,
punches buttons with a flourish and screams “Hello Pooty!”
Vlad the Inhaler enters from the east, bare chested, chants:
” Your king does my bidding, yes, but it’s for your protection.
There’s no way to stop him now. This is the resurrection.
Anyone who dares oppose will soon be wearing fetters.
Russia and USA merge. You just add three new letters.”
He mounts a small trojan horse and rides off tossing condoms.
Rotund king stands atilt, waving a MAGA handkerchief goodbye,
summons his family, a princess, knave, joker, handmaid and geek.
Queen Melanin struts on stage in a jacket that says, “F-Off!” and sings:
” My man loves grabbing pussies and boning porn stars.
He says he’ll be first to put women on Mars.
He told me be best and that means always looking pretty.
If I get wrinkles, he’ll send me off to anarchist city.”
She flounces offstage right to whistles and wolf calls from backstage.
Rotund king, sweating copiously, stands, dripping puddles on the boards.
He picks up a bible, holds it up, sets it afire. Repeats with the Constitution,
then, at center stage, winds a red tie about his head like a bandana, screams:
” You’ll never be rid of my golden fleece face.
When the time’s right, my kids will take my place.
Nothing you do can stop my tyranny.
Wave bye-bye now to your land of the free!”
He ties on a stars-and-stripes cape, floor-length, and shuffles off, leering.
Paramilitary ushers storm the aisles and the audience is arrested. Finis.