I wrote this poem seven years ago, when the rump first came on the election scene. Now there’s his mug shot, in which, like the bully he is, he tries to glare at all of us and scare us into letting him have his way (again.)
That’s the only problem with the rump. If there weren’t a lot of chickens in the world, he woulda been cut down a long long time ago. I cannot believe people who are gullible enough to believe this obvious fraud.
(I swore, by the way, never to use his given name or to capitalize any name I did use, which is why I refer to him as “the rump.” Never had any trouble with people not knowing who I was referring to. Oh I admit referring to him as the pseudo-POTUS a time or two.)
Anyway, the toad clown has always heretofore gotten his way by scaring the poor little chicks. Now he’s in a place where he can’t scare us any more, and he looks ridiculous, not threatening. I mean this is a 70-something-year-old who thinks he’s super-rump. Just how scary can he be?
I feel for all those poor little chicks that let him prevail over their own judgments. But this clown is done scaring people. He’s just done.
And I think the poem is still pretty damned accurate. (The pun in the title on the French phrase for “fool-the-eye” is intentional.)
TRUMPLOL
or
IF HIS SHINY NOGGIN PROTRUDES, IT COMES
TOSHOW HOW BALD HE IS, AND DUMB
These are the five expressions of Donald Trump:
Begin with Me Demented Beaver—
one tiny minatory index asserts
the pumpkin pomposity of his bilge-pump
opinion,upper lip lifted as if to gnaw,
with those small (but beaverish) white teeth,
an immigrant to death,
head tilted as if by the rolling weight of brain,
though it's plain
there's nothing but rattle and air
(and insane hair)
up there.
The second is Me So Clever,
eyes drooping shut, the loose and rubbery mouth
slung wide in a fatuous grin
like the lips of a fat cloth
purse full of turds.
And the one you just know
he practices in the mirror, the third’s
MeSecret Agent Man. He girds
those blubbery loins for battle, squinting to serious distance,
jaws clenched and bottom lip pooched to show
astern resolve (one supposes)
in the face of the villains' insistence
on evil. (Apparently
he doesn't see
the flubbery jowls, the double chin,
ors mell the mental halitosis,
the wholesale rot within).
Then there's Me Reasonable Man,
brows lifted, pigly eyes wide and still, the skin
around them strangely white, islands
in all that expanse of strangely orange tan,
the slack of the mouth reeled into deep and quizzical
corners of in-
comprehension, how could anyone doubt
such a brainy and physical
specimen,the healthiest fellow in the highlands?
And to conclude (or, more nearly, run out
of patience:
You No Like Me but Me HATE You,
the face all grimace and intimations
of slaughter, that impossible bouche
yanked to a tight and drawn-down U,
quivering inverted horse-shoe
of impotent fury, the eyes wide open
as if mayhem were about to happen—
What a douche.
Oh well. One could make fun (one could)
of the pathetic body, the phys-
so far from physique,
(which he perceives as impressively good)
the combed-over but actually hairless pate—
one could make fun all week,
but why bother? It is,
for almost all of us, a certain fate,
so fat and baldness don’t bother me, though I am appalled
by this short-fingered fraud,
who just happens (have you noticed?) to be fat and bald.