The Trump After Christmas by Paul Lewis
‘Twas the night after Christmas and in the White House
One creature was stirring, an orange-faced louse.
With only four weeks left before he would leave
He still had a thousand mean tweets up his sleeve.
So he took out his cell and all through the night,
Alone in his office, spewed malice and spite.
“They cheated,” “they cheated,” “they cheated,” “they cheated,”
Over and over he tweeted “they cheated…”
But somewhere deep down in his shriveled, cold heart
The Donald’s self-image was coming apart.
“How could they reject me?” he asked with a sigh,
There’s no one who’s more presidential than I!
“How could they reject me?” again with a sigh,
As his days with immunity ticked slowly by.
“They say I’m a liar, but that can’t be true.
They say I serve Putin, well what if I do?
They say that I think I know more than the rest
Of the world’s other leaders, well, then I’m the best!
They say that I’m angry, those losers and wussies,
They say that I meant it when I said I grope pussies,
And when I said that some fascists are good,
That’s not what I meant, I’m just misunderstood!
But wait, who are ‘they,’ these fake network hosts,
How could I forget I’m in charge, I can boast,
And, Diet Cokes guzzling, make this final toast:
“To trolling the Dems and their socialist backers,
To Russia and Wikileaks, the best of the hackers.
To pardoning everyone who knows what I’ve done,
And to keep tweeting twaddle till Biden’s undone.”
Dawn was just breaking when Trump fell asleep,
His sore twitter finger in need of relief.
Alone in his nightmare, reflections appeared
Of the post-POTUS life he most cravenly feared.
In a time-shifting mirror, he saw his fat face
Turn from orange to gray and then float off in space.
His hair, now in ruins, was stringy and white,
And waved in the wind till it faded from sight.
In the swirl of dark dreaming a vision he glanced
Of debts and indictments, L. James and Cy Vance.
So he woke in a sweat and, trembling in fear,
Knew what life would be like in the dawning new year.
Photo | theweek.com
Paul Lewis is the author of A Is for Asteroids, Z Is for Zombies: A Bedtime Book about the Coming Apocalypse (illustrated by Ken Lamug).
Wonderful. Sad but frighteningly true
I’d say I don’t like seeing Christmas politicized. But as I played Ebenezer Scrooge several times in the story that’s largely a political/social commentary, that would be rather hypocritical.
So instead I’ll say, nice poem! I’m going to go check out more of Paul Lewis’ work.