Mr President: #45

there's a B-52 hanging from the ceiling;
underneath is a President who is masturbating while self-dealing.
on the Capitol steps he's blowing smoke
up his ass he's dealing big-time dope
rolls of loose fat falling far from his Mar-A-Lago chair;
combing his orange spray-tanned facial hair
on the white house south lawn
no generals seen but two wives gone:
it's enough to make you puke
hearing that he thinks he's too damn cute
in the morning all the official staff prostrate on the Oval Office floor
disowning personal honor by asking if he would like some more:
he'll miss this and all the fake news and other stuff
always pretending to be Mister Marlboro Man tough
but he's got those damn bone spurs
playing golf while wearing daddy's borrowed furs
looking into the mirror asking who's the fairest one of all?
banging his head against the Constitutional wall.
grab your loaded guns and your hooded masks:
deny involvement if Homeland Security asks.
a scorched earth and refugees in Central American rags
wading across a river cradling hope inside their paper bags,
anxious for when the public school bell rings:
no, it's not over till the fictional fat lady sings
Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee,
or say can you see from sea to shining sea.