Our convention’s underway!
Time for GOP to play.
Leave that Dem show in the lurch;
in our front row: Q t-shirts.
All my family will be speechin’ it
(none will have the word “impeach” in it).
Each night I’ll make an appearance;
skirt the edge of incoherence;
make my case for re-election,
claiming everything’s perfection.
You’ll see speakers who have dark skin
get a chance to slide remarks in.
While the virus still attacks, I’d
like some doctors (from the quack side)
to extol how well I’m doing
as those deaths keep on accruing.
You’ll see lots of women speaking
(my son’s girlfriend will be shrieking).
There’s that couple from St. Louis –
guns: you know just what their view is.
Not much chance it dispelled your fears
when I said I’d serve twelve more years.
Mike Pence no longer looking pale; he’s
still V.P. – not Nikki Haley.
Suburban housewives: hope to get
them riled up in their kitchenettes.
I’ll keep pushing optimism,
feigning there’s no racial schism.
Second-term proposal? It’s:
We must get rid of socialists.
The Democrats I will denounce,
anticipating a big bounce.
Hoping great production values
mean that Biden – not me – shall lose.
Planning to allay all your fears:
never you mind these past four years.
The Trump Poems 