A peacefulness has settled in. He’s been gone but a day.

So Bernie’s free to pad his lead, contenders on their trails.

It seems it’s what the nation needs, a break from their travails.

He’s on the other side of earth; he can’t cause too much trouble.

Relax, be calm, use time as balm. He’ll return, burst this bubble.

His stay in India is short. He’s there to sell them arms.

A giant crowd cheers long and loud, a tribute to his charms.

He mentions his friend Pakistan, a local source of tension.

He mixes good things up with bad, as if it’s his invention.

Perhaps he’ll fall in love with India, extend his stay.

More likely he’ll miss KFC and fly back home next day.

In any rate, the day looks great. The sun seems twice as bright.

He’s notably a better leader when he’s out of sight.

They are building walls around their slums.

He won’t like the Taj Mahal

as much as his gambling hall.

“This one that you’ve got is pretty,

but not like Atlantic City.”

He won’t say he had to hock

his casino to Hard Rock.

Meanwhile, monkeys wait in Agra,

all pumped up on chimp viagra,

planning demonstrations when he’s there.

They just want to play in his nest hair.

Forces armed with their sling shots

will try to cool off their hots.

Melania had best dress down,

put away that rhesus gown.

Trump’s big speech at House of Cricket:

“India, here’s my boot…Lick it!”

He’ll make Prime Minister Modi

into his best roadie toady,

from his armored limo wave,

driving over Gandhi’s grave.

All the people of New Delhi

want to see the dude’s big belly.

If it works out, there may be new trading.

He might say their wall needs an upgrading.

And if a monkey comes too close, he’ll kick it.

That, my friends, could be a sticky wicket.

He’s like a mix of Larry David and old Mr. Bluster.

It’s good that kids, who watch their vids, have got behind this boomer.

He’ll smash the oligarchy and had harsh words for the Bloomer.

They say his early praise of Sandinistas might be slighted,

but this new world of social media is quite near sighted.

What have you done today, they’ll ask. I’ll conquer a dictator.

That’s cool, they’ll say, go have your way, we’ll check in with you later.

If he can tear down walls and has the balls to check this king,

the world will be a Bernie paradise and kids will sing:

“O, white-haired one, here comes the sun, the world’s back on its axis.”

Here come free school and health care, cool, paid for by rich men’s taxes.

And if VP is Warren, she can carry on his torch.

A brand new generation can toast them from their front porch.

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.

He’ll be out before too long, though, for not testifying.

He’s the Joker deep inside the president’s dark cave.

Barr’s the Riddler, Rudy is the Penguin and head knave.

Ivanka is Catwoman and her husband’s Mister Freeze.

The two sons are the Trigger Twins, kill anything they please.

If Bernie could be Batman, and Liz or Pete his Robin,

perhaps they could clear out that cave, and overthrow King Gobbin.

If not, our Gotham as we know it could well cease to be.

Left with just a spotlight searching for democracy.

Next year this might be basis for many new religions.

Please, Bernie, Liz, Pete, Amy, Joe, agree on a consensus.

Or people caught not wearing hats might be encaged by fences.

Get the glue and whips out, too, dissenters locked in stocks.

While the barker tweets their shame from inside his gold box.

They had their chance to do his dance and entertain his court.

Now they will be apprentices in his new deadly sport.

Someone who bleeds, gets on his knees, and begs might get a pardon.

More likely still, he’ll be roadkill beneath the White House garden.