couldn’t resist copying&posting this.

TRUMP – a poem by Stanley Moss

to the worthless poor

The moon, the sun, every twinkling star

has Trump’s face, every snowflake.

They say he’s suing Louis Armstrong

for playing the trumpet,

the Rockies, the Himalayas, the Alps

have changed their names to Trump Humps.

Trump’s barber has made a fortune

selling Trump’s cut golden hair,

his broken wind: north, east, south and west,

Trump’s Spray Aftershave,

the rage in Paris, Piccadilly Circus.

Aphrodisiac for aphrodisiac,

bottled “Trump Dung,” sometimes counterfeit,

is traded on the Shanghai black market

for less potent rhinoceros horn.

(The tone “dung,” in my wonderful Chinese,

means “as if” and, at the same time,

“distinguished person.”)


I heard Christie’s sold, at free port Zürich

by “private treaty,” a Trump toilet seat

on which he sat for prosperous years,

for the price of a Rodin bronze Thinker.

I am prepared to wait till Hell freezes

for the Security Council to vote

the Atlantic, Pacific, and Mediterranean

to be renamed Trump Oceans.

Every Silicon Valley kid knows, finally,

when all the holy texts are drowned,

Trump Ocean will cover Trump Tower—

the one Good Book afloat: The Art of the Deal.

Last thought: I daydream Trump, son of Queens,

is King Richard the Third, sun of New York.

Our Father who art in Trump Tower,

hallowed be thy portfolio,

thy casino come, thy will be done

in real estate as it is in Heaven.



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