I won’t run into a crowded theater, make a scene and cry out “Fire!”;
drink milk from a paper carton once the use-by-date expires;
talk about “the Scottish play” by mentioning its name, Macbeth.
So why would I jump up and down in place and start to scream, “Death! Death!”?
The last thing that I want to do is get you people panicking,
since some of my supporters think I am a messianic king.
I’d really rather play it down despite this being deadly stuff.
Bob Woodward is at fault; he should have told me, “Sir – you’ve said enough.”
I claimed one day the virus would be gone, just like a miracle.
Compared to what I said on tape, that sounds almost satirical.
I knew coronavirus was a deadly threat, right from the first,
and even recognized that through the air was how it was dispersed.
I told the nation this would go away, so best to just stay calm.
(I also said avoiding STDs was my own Vietnam.)
The irony in all of this: by choosing not to broadcast death
my campaign, since the truth’s come out, appears to be on its last breath.
The Trump Poems 