Dear President Bannon. It’s me, Milo.

Dear President Bannon,

(cc: “Daddy”)

I know you haven’t heard from me for a while, I’ve been away doing some thinking after that whole hot mess last week. (By the way there’s a fabulous spa in Tulum I can recommend, will send you details separately).

Talk about a full on snowflake pile on! But you of all people know what that’s like, so I’m not going to bother you with my problems. In fact I’m writing to tell you about my next project: Milo is going back to his roots. Surely you remember my masterful poetry collection, Eskimoo Papoose? Well, during an early morning walk on the beach a few days ago it occurred to me that now is the perfect time take it to the next level, never let a good crisis go to waste and all. Wait for it … I think you’re going to like this:

I, Milo. Next Poet Laureate of the United States.

And no, I’m not even kidding. In my newly abundant spare time I took it upon myself to read some of the rubbish the current Laureate has been serving up at taxpayer expense. Did you know that some of his dreck is in Spanish? Seriously, I think it’s time for someone who actually speaks American to be the country’s official balladeer, don’t you? Adios amigo, back to Mexico with you.

On that note, and at the risk of being too presumptuous, see below for an initial slate of work. I’m thinking that a debut at the beginning of April, for the State Dinner with Vladimir (aka “Russian Poo Bear”) would be absolutely marvelous. I’d love to serve up a sonnet, a limerick and a sassy haiku. I can already picture the social justice warriors from Takoma Park to Santa Monica sobbing their poor multicultural hearts out. Oh what fun!

What do you say Mr. President, are you in? If so, would you be so kind as to send me back any notes by the end of the month, so I can polish these up for the big night? It would also be good to put in a print order for Papoose to sell at the White House gift shop. Also … is there any way Daddy could push out a Tweet about it?

Without further ado:

Do not come to my press conference and weep

Do not come to my press conference and weep
It makes me laugh, you fat liberal sheep
I am a thousand horns that blow
I am the oracle that knows
I am the phoenix that flies
You are the loser that lies
When you read the news in the morning rush
I’m the one who makes you blush
Of vultures above taking flight
I am the archer in the night
Do not come to my press conference and weep
I am not there, I’m in the White House

The Man from Britannia

There once was a man from Britannia
Whose favorite dame is Melania
But his joke about 13-year-olds
Left him in the cold
Woe on that man from Britannia

Tweet Tweet

Twitter, who needs you
I’ll have cake and eat it too
Libs, eat my poopoo

Daddy, Grab My Pussy

Daddy, how they complained
They tried to make you feel ashamed
For being a warm blooded man
And grabbing what you demand
But don’t listen to a word they say
I may be a Jew, and a big old bottom
A proud and sassy son of Sodom,
But I’ve been traveling coast to coast,
And I’ve seen far more liberal pussy than most
Some might say I’m out of line
But you know I’m right every time
And just so you know, if you ever get the urge
That manly, non-consensual need to splurge
And there are no pussies to be found
Grab me instead Daddy, I’ll be around!

My dear president, your opinion is and always will be my dark, devious lodestar, and I eagerly await your reply. Until then I remain ever and always, loyally and dangerously,



P.S. By the way I left a few of my favorite suits at the Breitbart office in Washington, but I gather they’re taking this persona non grata thing very seriously and security won’t let me in to pick them up. Any way you could put in a word?