The cure can’t be worse than the problem itself,
So take that malaria drug off the shelf
And dump it right into the water supply.
You’re worried about risk? I’ll indemnify.
We’re more than halfway through a 15-day plan,
And yet there are more sick than when we began.
I’m losing my patience; why won’t this curve flatten?
We’ll be better off if we don’t count Manhattan.
Would people prefer to be broke – but alive –
If their 401(k) balance doesn’t survive?
Or would they accept letting old people perish
So we can go out and get drunk, like we cherish?
The choices that I’ve had to make are quite hard:
Which expert’s opinion should I disregard?
Reward versus risk if we use chloroquine?
Which White House reporter should I now demean?
When I heard that Mitt Romney’s in self-isolation
I said, “Gee, too bad,” with sarcastic elation.
He’ll be out of my orange hair for two weeks –
I sure need a break from his endless critiques.
The media – who, it’s quite clear, I have hated –
Are now sparsely seated; they’ve been separated.
I’m sure they’re upset that this room’s almost empty;
Perhaps we should keep it this way. (Please don’t tempt me.)
Becoming your President cost me a wad,
But I had no choice: I was chosen by God.
I always have gone with my gut, as I saw fit:
Between health or money – I’ll always choose profit.
The Trump Poems 