John McCain, I’m not a fan. He was a Pee-Oh-Dubya.
I made arrangements for his wake; then family said, “We’ll snub ‘ya.”
Was not invited to his funeral, which hurt me greatly. It
Has soured me to the point I’ll always speak ill of this patriot.
And then there is George Conway, or – as I now call him – “Missus.”
He tweets about my mental state, and truth be told it pisses
Off not only me but forces Kellyanne to choose a side here.
She hasn’t said as much – but sleeping on the couch implied here.
A guy I think is crazy with his hand movements is Beto.
It’s like he’s in an opera; something straight from Rigoletto.
I’m trying to set a tone here, a dismissive note that lingers.
But, honestly – I’m jealous; I’ve got tiny little fingers.
I also knocked Dukakis, who once drove a tank; looked foolish.
Though thirty years have gone by, I don’t think there’s any rule which
Says I can’t make fun of his campaign and so I will deride it.
I’d drive a tank myself, but fear I might get stuck inside it.
Why do I make these comments that dishonor and belittle?
Because, despite my bluster, I’ve an ego that’s quite brittle.
I focus on the thorns and rarely stop to smell the roses –
I’ll leave it to the armchair shrinks to make a diagnosis.
The Trump Poems 