Trump’s Night Before Christmas
‘Twas the night before Christmas two-thousand-sixteen
The year we all said, “bye, American Dream!”
Homes nationwide decorated with care,
In hopes the alt-right would think Christians lived there.
The Trumps were nestled all snug in yuuuge beds;
While visions of loyalists danced in their heads;
Ivanka wore PJs — for sale on her site! —
While old Führer Trump paced all through the night.
When out there on Twitter came anti-Don chatter,
Trump sprang right into action, all loaded with blather.
Away to his laptop he flew like a flash,
Smiled bigly, for there on his home screen was cash.
His beautiful timeline bore praise from his troops,
But mentions they brimmed with anti-MAGA groups.
“@realdonaldtrump you’re not fit to be Prez,
you treat women like dirt, you’ve no politics res.”
“@realdonaldtrump’s Muslim ban makes me sick!
His climate change stance? Better shift, Quick!”
More rapid than eagles, his takedowns they came,
he fumed, and he typed, and he shamed them by name:
“Now, Kelly! Now, Baldwin! Now Chuck Jones and Zucker!
Hush, Baquet! Shush, Graydon! Shhh Romney and Nutter!
It’s my country now! It was Hillary’s fall!
Dems’ out, Trump’s in, and I will build that wall!”
“All morons!” He thought as he stormed ‘round the room.
“No class, all lightweights, they’d choke in boardrooms.”
He sent 3 a.m. tweets, his anger it grew,
With nuclear codes, he feared no liberal crew.
“The news is unfair, cyber hacks can’t be caught.
Won in a landslide, Air Force One’s overwrought.
The Times? It is failing, HRC is all pomp.
I’m bringing in Exxon; we’re draining the swamp!”
But when signing offline, his small palms they did sweat,
his cold heart it knew, he had made no plans yet.
He’d no plan for jobs, and no plan made for ISIS,
No plan for health care, or the civil rights crisis.
Thank goodness for Bannon, and silver-haired Pence,
If things went too south, could the wall be a fence?
A job he ne’er wanted, hard tasks made him tired.
Could someone call “cut,” or just tell him “you’re fired?”
He thought he had thrown it with that pussy leak,
And locker room talk on the feminine physique.
But the base was inspired, his followers loyal,
That sea of red hats would not ever recoil.
He’d rule as he wanted, turn down daily briefs,
Who would tell him he’s wrong? He’s commander-in-chief!
It crept up again, that dark pesky old doubt
He’d no plan, no M.O., not one ounce of clout.
But his trump card it sat at the back of the deck,
If it crumbled to pieces, he’d a future in tech!
He’d give reigns o’er to Russia, leave Putin in charge.
Retire to Palm Beach, sending tweets, living large.
At the sunset of life all he wanted was fame,
This whole president thing? Popularity game.
“I’m tremendous,” he thought on November the eighth.
“My win was so huge; my hair always looks great.”
He sent one more tweet ‘fore the end of the night,
“I’m terrific. You’re losers. And I’m always right.”
