As I continue to play down the impact,
there are a thousand each day who still die.
It is amazing my probity’s intact,
since I don’t breathe in between every lie.
More are now dead than the total from five wars;
there’s a good chance we’ll eclipse World War II.
Yet my performance I keep giving high scores,
even though all that I say is untrue.
Two-hundred thousand are dead and still counting.
I’m making claims that there’s none who are young,
even while there is more evidence mounting:
we’re losing children with songs not yet sung.
I keep on pushing claims – if I’d done nothing,
Two or three million of us would have perished.
So I half-assed it, and here is the tough thing:
Everyone dead is a person you cherished.
Each time he wears a mask I mock my rival,
and I make fun of small crowds at his rallies.
His actions demonstrate keys to survival;
I’d rather downplay the various tallies
even as cases are once again surging.
We’re on the cusp of a rise in mortality.
I work to keep the hard truth from emerging:
I have completely lost touch with reality.
The Trump Poems 