POEM: Trump Ink

The man
Who rant for President
Commandeering in chief
Playing his big invisible hand
Dealt by his Daddy Warbucks
Showing himself off
As a selfie made man
A Monopoly™ man
Blowing his stack
Of get out
Of jail free
Cards
Of a reel sort
Knews to none
Trumped up phallus reasoning
As a fraud of nothing
Too Marvel™
Upon his titanic deck
Firming he’ll make it
Lady Liberty this time
Subsumed as Trump towers
And country men sow desperate
Miss leader
Willing to inure
The rank
And file
For moral bankruptcy
Wile the emperor reigns immunity
Heiling from the empire state
And big heir poses
As the bust wee might due
In a second
Rather forth coming
Such blustery daze
Like taking out
A worthless assurance policy
A verbal contract
Worth neither the ink nor paper its printed on

In news from the presidential raze, the presumptuous nominee for the Republican party, Donald Trump, having blown his stack, has tissued another lode of verbal contracts fitting his hand size.  Mean wile, Republican party elephantine sycophants pick their collective knows about how to undo their freakish creation.  They efface the inconceivable, as know won wants to take responsibility for fathering this disavowed bastard.  The truth exposed!  Butt the show must go on!!  Hillary Clinton will have to add “joining the circus” to her resume — perhaps her only way to know a veil of her own freakish candidacy.

As Donald Trump inks to hi heaven, even the rigged binary of immanent electrons indulges the truth of this poem published exclusively online:  Donald Trump ink, like his sundry verbal contracts, are not worth the paper they are printed on.