I have said avoiding taxes is just proof that I am smart,
and reducing liability’s not science, but an art.
So, among the most creative of allowances, I dare say,
were the tens of thousands I wrote off for all those cans of hairspray.
An audit meant at my returns you couldn’t take a peek. It
was the flimsiest excuse for keeping all that data secret.
Richard Nixon, in the midst of Watergate, released his taxes –
but not me. It was the failing New York Times who first unpacked this.
I paid not one cent of income tax in ten of fifteen years,
and for two of those – just seven-hundred fifty it appears.
I filed a massive refund that might not have been legitimate,
but despite the shaky dodge it rests upon, I still submitted it.
I own a huge estate: it’s not a home, but an investment.
I’ve refused to share my filings in response to each request sent.
I paid several hundred thousands when Ivanka was consulted
on a hotel deal, and made use of the credit that resulted.
An image of abundant wealth’s what fueled my rise to power;
I lose money on most everything I own, except Trump Tower.
I bleed money at my golf courses; unloaded stocks I held.
My abuse of our tax system is perhaps unparalleled.
I’ve dismissed the Times’ reporting, claiming (no surprise) FAKE NEWS;
said the I.R.S. is most unfair, for years I’ve been abused.
My supporters won’t abandon me – they all know who I am,
but the way that I’ve portrayed myself is nothing but a sham.