Stopping by Washington on a Snowy Evening
Whose swamp this is, I think I know:
Hails from Kenya, name starts with ‘O.’
He’s been dumped. I’m President Trump
It’s time for that loser to go.
He came to Washington talking about ‘hope.’
Nobel Prize or not, that makes him a dope.
To that mope, I say ‘nope.’
Let’s go find us some chicks to grope.
That house he lives in, historic and old
Not my style. I like bold
And I like huge, and (trust me) I’m huge.
I’ll fill it with women, cover it in gold.
‘Cause this swamp’s mine, it’s for sale.
This is my moment. No way I’ll fail.
Billionaires welcome, no Mexicans please.
Just say ‘Heil Donald’ (but pronounce it ‘hail’).
I’ll fill this swamp, call it ‘Trump Lake.’
Say I’m doing it for America’s sake.
Let’s move. I have promises to break…
And lots and lots of money to make.
(Lots and lots of money to make!)
(Who wrote this poem, you think you know:
Old man with glasses, hair like snow.
You’re thinking Frost, but you are lost.
Author’s a guy with weak sense of humor, poor rhyming skills and absolutely no sense of meter)