Banana Kreme Republic

Down in Mar a Lago he’s installed his own rice paddy.

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.

A Dark Hallmark

Shout out to our heartless king on this valentine's day,
hunkered in his office cutting programs for the poor,
blowing up old monuments that stand in his wall’s way,
insulting all his minions and dominions, to be sure.
The march of broken bodies he’s imagined in his head
will soothe him though he’s prone to sudden rages.
He’ll march them ’til they’re out of sight or most of them are dead.
The ones who make it through, he’ll put in cages.
He celebrates, as usual, with red tie and red hat.
He’ll eat delicious supper from a bucket.
And when his poor advisors come in for their daily chat,
he’ll glance at their synopsis, then he’ll chuck it.
His only ‘friend,’ dear Rudy will deliver candy hearts,
the ones that each contain a funny saying.
It’s the closest that he comes to dabbling in the arts.
Each special heart is stamped with the king’s braying.
There’s “Love is a Wall,” and “Booty on Call,”
and one that says “I (heart) My Daughter.”
He’ll finish the whole bag, then charge for a stall,
and start up his daily tweet slaughter.

The World of T

No more justice. No more laws.

Trump has pointed out their flaws.
Now he will make all the calls
on which way the gavel falls.
Those who dis him, moan and wail.
You’ll be winding up in jail.
Those who praise and kiss his ass
will receive a lifetime pass.
No need now for judge or court.
Prison time if you abort.
Those with guns who treat him right
bask in his unholy might.
Former lawyers will get jobs
rounding up illegal mobs.
If you’re foreign, best start swimmin’.
Soon there’ll be no vote for women.
He’ll obey what Putin’s said,
maybe paint the White House red.
We’re walking a slippery ramp,
maybe toward containment camp.
Goodbye flawed democracy.
Welcome to the World of T.

If The Glitz Fits

Politics was overrun by Oscars Sunday night,

although, quite tellingly, the big win was “Parasite.”
It was not a documentary about our leader,
but a South Korean film from way off fame’s bright meter.
Other nominated films gave nods to our land’s dreadful plight.
“Irishman” had mobsters, “Joker” had a mind not right.
While, overall, the ceremony cleared the D.C. palate,
some might have wished these movie stars were on the coming ballot.
Joaquin, of course, would be the Secretary of the Mad.
Though some would say there’s several in this cabinet just as bad.
Brad Pitt would be the head of ‘IT’ and work without a shirt.
Renee would roam the capital, sing Judy ’til it hurt.
And what if exercising Jane was made the new A.G.
In her red dress, she’d fix the mess we’ve made of history.
And last, but not least, comes Sir Elton, our own Rocket Man.
Imagine him in uniform, head of the Space Force plan.
Alas the show is over and it’s back to day-to-day.
Gone is the flash, here comes the bash. All we can do is pray.

Stone Cold Case

Throw a bone to Roger Stone and lock up testifiers.

Whistle blowers, it’s been shown, are dictator deniers.
Anyone who’s gone to court and acted as a witness
may think twice and cut things short just to preserve their fitness.
Criminals of every ilk have got to be delighted.
Accusations slide like silk and no one gets indicted.
It’s just like the good old days, Capone’s Chicago gang.
Kill the the rats and pay the judge, let the wrong guy hang.
Jurisprudence now lies bleeding on the courtroom floor.
It’s time for crime’s daily feeding. Katy, Barr the door.

Sect Education

I am the only grad of late Trump University.

At least that’s what he tells me and he won’t return my fee.
He said the courses were on line, kept somewhere on his Twitter.
He blamed me when I could not find and for that I am bitter.
He claims I have advanced degrees in cheating and deception,
that somewhere in the next four years there’ll be a great reception.
He doesn’t give out sheepskins because they’re too hard to eat.
Diplomas come on chicken skin, all crisp, and some have meat.
When asked about a cap and gown, he said no need for that.
Official Trump school uniform is long red tie and hat.
I’m called MAGA cum laude, have my own fraternity.
He charged me for induction after telling me it’s free.
I’m going to find the campus and protest his phony biz.
But I have looked all over and he won’t say where it is.
Calm down, he said, this will look quite good on your resume.
But every interviewer laughs and sends me straight away.
I even caught flack hanging my diploma on the wall.
“That thing just smells, my mother yells”, “Please put it in the hall.”
I’m disappointed there will be no meetings with alums.
As scams go, this one takes the cake and doesn’t leave no crumbs.

Up a Notch

Dixville Notch, the nation’s crotch,

is set to cast first vote.
The process, which they seldom botch,
is let five bottles float.
With picks inside, they ride the tide
along New Hampshire’s shore.
‘Til someone finds them, brings inside,
and then we know the score.
It may be days or even weeks
before they wash back in.
And every eager candidate
seeks those five votes to win.
The tiny town retains its crown
way up there in the sticks.
While bigger cities tear them down
as just a bunch of hicks.
But Dixville Notchers won’t be cowed
by them there city slicks.
They savor every vote allowed.
Some day there might be six.

Ideology Update

If the left and right here did switch places,

right would see a lot more non-white faces.
Left would have to hold those MAGA signs,
right be pepper sprayed in protest lines.
Left would say the cops have got our backs.
Right would say they only arrest blacks.
Left would say they’ll give up guns when dead,
right urge they use smaller ones instead.
What we need perhaps is a new middle,
folks sick of the emperor’s gold fiddle,
who back equal pay and education,
health insurance and a kinder nation.
As things are the two sides will keep bashing,
a highway with no lines where cars keep crashing.
A party based upon our common ground
might quell the furor, keep the earth around.

In Stitches

The Don is giving pink slips to his enemies within,

making sure the backstabbing will not happen again.
Oh sure, he says, they stabbed me, even though it was the truth;
they soiled my name, my fame, my game. It was all quite uncouth.
The list of ‘those to go’ is even longer than his arm.
And those outside the premises will also suffer harm.
Sondland and the Vindman boys have already been purged
and Mitt will doubtless suffer hits the man openly urged.
Anyone who raised their voice against his innocence
will be forced to sit, enclosed, three hours with Mike Pence.
And those who might flap their loose lips against him in the future
might undergo a White House process known as close-mouth suture.

Rush Hour

Rush Limbaugh walks amongst the freedom gods,

a snarling racist bigot, what’s the odds.
He calls girls sluts and bitches, a.m. radio in stitches.
He likes the women’s movement for their bods.
He skirts around the N word for his fans.
His thoughts are merely fodder for shit cans.
He’s lowered every bar on radio so far.
He loves the whites, but not so much the tans.
He doesn’t really talk, more like a yell,
a snake oil huckster with nothing to sell.
His foot is on the treadle, conspiracy to peddle.
Some hope he’ll have the drive time spot in hell.

Badtime Story

In what’s now become the wild wild west,

there’s a bedtime story kids love best,
about a family that ruled the land
in what came to be a four year stand.
The ruler’s name was Darn X Dump,
known widely for his death fist bump.
His model wife, named Melanoma,
purchased at Williams Sonoma,
sons named Airwick and Darn Too,
Barren, raised inside a shoe,
daughter Ipana, a looker,
whom he treated like a hooker.
One kid named Epiphany
made no noise, she was thought-free.
He’d cast off wives like used cars,
spent his free time with porn stars.
Some doubled down on hate. He tripled.
Even made fun of the crippled.
Came to power through his cheating,
threatening, lying, then defeating.
Made up nasty names for all.
His motto was “It’s my ball.”
Those who loved the sound of static
seemed to find him charismatic.
Finally, breaking all the rules,
he’d amassed a land of fools.
His next step was put up walls,
kids in cages, he had balls.
No one was beyond his reach.
Whispers came, “impeach…impeach.”
His concept of give-and-take:
putting heads upon a stake.
Ultimately got free reign,
although quite clearly  insane.
Over all things he held sway.
Sleep now, or he’ll come your way.

Feats, Don’t Fail US Now !

That’s Faye Wray, heading right this way on a giant monkey sleigh. Looks like a thriller.

The Wu Tang Clan swoop right down on Rodan, and right there by their side is Barney MIller.

And here comes Jerry Lee, that cajun killer bee. It seems he’s put a saddle on Godzilla.

They’ve all joined their forces, and saddled up their horses, then put them on a boat to take Manilla.

Perhaps they’re all cranked up on dope.
They think they’ll find an envelope which may just knock the world off of its axis.
And if the good prevail and don’t get thrown in jail, it contains the holy grail: Trump’s taxes.
Super heroes, don your capes, enough of this sour grapes!
Put on your suit, Kim Jong Un. Rise up from the Black Lagoon.
Wolf Man Letterman arise in your CPA disguise.
It is time now, Bob DeNiro, to be off-screen super hero.
Bernie Sanders, commie jew, storm Internal Revenue.
Get those numbers on this chump. Quasimodo, use your hump.
Nick and Asta, call the wife. He’s been cheating all his life.
Mothra, rise to this occasion. Beat your wings for tax evasion.
Trump, your passport: better stamp it. On your heels comes old Jed Clampett.
Perry Mason, Matlock, too: this may all come down to you.
Once the numbers are in place, Trump will claim a state of grace.
But the numbers do not lie, it’s cited. Odds say forty-five will be indicted.
Ignore all his razzmatazz. Drop him off at Alcatraz. He can’t swim. so don’t get all excited.

Impeach-free Speech

The state of the union is very much divided,

warring factions calling each, the other one, misguided.
A slippery slope, no hope, no hope, and both are quite sheer sided.
Two ships of fools without clear rules about to be collided.
The market is our shining harbor where the rich folks play.
But on the streets homes made of sheets and boxes mar the way.
The dial-up universe is where the voters have their say.
While there are zones without i-phones that hint of judgement day.
There’s some who’d die to save their guns and praise confederation.
Others cite the children killed while seeking education.
Close the borders, screams one side, we must have separation.
On the news, there’s lies and facts, depending on the station.
In this country painted red, some edges are still green.
Others find the blues their muse and hunker in between.
It’s been shown the colors gold and orange can turn mean.
So, here’s a chance for one more dance. Begin the last beguine.

Star Fangled Scammer

Oh say can you see by the Don’s surly fight

Why so proudly we hail all his sly lies and scheming.
Whose broad snipes and bright slurs through the impeachment fight,
O’er his huge wall we watched as his twitter was streaming.
And the rocket’s red glare killed a general somewhere,
Gave proof to the right that he really don’t care.
Oh say does his long red tie ceaselessly wave
o’er a land of the free in a circumstance grave?

Bacon Bowl

Football is a game which can prompt some heated discussions,
some about statistics, some about concussions.
People’d rather see these very pumped up gladiators
doing their tough mayhem dance, quite unlike fey ice skaters.
When they score, they celebrate as if they’ve saved the world,
all because a pigskin ball was caught when it was hurled.
Wearing so much armor you can barely see their faces,
yet it’s a safe bet some will lie broken in some places.
During half time bands with tubas march around the field.
Then the battered bruisers come back out to see who’ll yield.
When at last the time runs out and one’s declared the winner,
they go to the locker room and eat pain pills for dinner.
All in all, it’s not a game that one should teach a child.
Don’t spend your summers working out, go find the girls gone wild.

This Olde House

Just redecorated the republic.

It was getting old and rather frayed.
Threw out lots of useless junk in Constitution drawers.
Made sure rules that help the elite stayed.
All that rusted bull crap about lying under oath,
sent it off with 1-800-JUNK.
Bribery and cheating in elections, o.k. both.
President is not some kind of monk.
Opened up a closet where the drapes of wrath are stored.
Soon will hang them all around the house.
Made some sweet donations to those senators adored.
Not one cent to one Dem dirty louse.
Plan now to repaper all our lovely border walls
with a motif that says “Go Away!”
Making fun of Chuck and Nancy in the White House halls
will add fun and spirit to each day.
In the new D.C. feng shui, health care will be adjusted.
The sick and poor can join up as a team.
Maybe then first aid can be delivered to the busted.
But, of course, that’s just a loser’s dream.
The Statue of Liberty will move to Mar a Lago,
and be used to fight off hurricanes.
Largest prison ever will encompass all Chicago,
to house outlaws with left-leaning brains.
And to those who speculate Putin will take Alaska,
that is all fake news. It isn’t real.
If he gets it, it will be a gift to the great master.
Might throw in Hawaii on the deal.

Alexander the Mediocre

Lamar had one last chance to serve his country well.
Just a vote “yes,” then he could retire.
But he chose instead to live his his old age out in hell,
let his country burn down in Trump fire.
Though Lamar suggested ‘inappropriate behavior,’
it wasn’t bad enough to be impeached.
And so the Dems are left without a hero or a savior,
stranded one vote short by Senate, beached.
The historic moment will now be washed out to sea,
unheard witnesses lost to the tide.
Evil’s in the public interest. We must let it be,
strapped in our apocalyptic ride.

No Threat. No Threat. You’re the Threat !

Oh, please, friends, interfere in this election.

I don’t know who my friends are.
There’s such a great selection.
I may have pissed off Macron and that poof Justin Trudeau,
but I’ve got pals like Daddy Vlad and Rocket Kim YoYo.
My homies are all dictators and they’ll blow you away.
They’ll phone your drone, explode your home.
They’ll make it not your day.
And Benjie, my Jew buddy, who’s got money in West Bank,
has silos buried everywhere, and at my call, he’ll crank.
You scum who called me ‘has-been’ when Apprentice left the air
will be in chains, fake news remains, so kiss my derriere.
And to you Friends who help me, you will get some new terrain.
The winner gets Great Greenland, the loser gets Ukraine.

His Due

Satan sleeps down by my feet.

I think he likes the smell.
When not awake, he’s pretty sweet.
But roused, he’s really hell.
Get up and sin, get up and kill,
he’ll shout throughout the house.
I tell him to shut up and chill.
I couldn’t hurt a mouse.
At least shoplift, steal something small,
he’ll try to get me scheming.
Go back to bed, that is my call.
Don’t mind him when he’s dreaming.
He seems to think he’ll change my mind,
make me do something crazy.
But soon he’ll find I’m not that kind.
I’m not bad. I’m just lazy.

Free Speech Costs

Sekulow is bellowing his lies.
All the Trumpish bullshit in disguise.
This all is for naught. Ukraine wasn’t bought.
Dems usurped a perfect call like spies.
Biden is the one should be on trial.
He should have to walk the dead man’s mile.
Got his son a job with Burisma mob.
Sleepy Joe should be sent to exile.
Bolton only wants his book to sell.
If he testifies, he’ll go to hell.
Lies through his mustache, talks a lot of trash.
There is really nothing he can tell.
It was just a policy decision,
warped by Schiff to orchestrate derision.
Let the transcript show there is no quid pro quo.
There’s no need to question his great vision.
Democrats will have to pay the price.
They will learn to treat their leader nice.
We’ll fix their elections, destroy their protections.
Time to put those jackasses on ice.