COVID was a gift from God (unlike my first and second wives).
And while the public finds it odd, my doctor says he reckons I’ve
recovered quickly from this plague. I’m ready to campaign again.
I don’t feel sickly (details vague); I’m back to feeling vain. Amen!
The next debate is virtual? I’ll take a pass; won’t go along,
since that which doesn’t hurt you will result in your returning strong.
I’m feeling so much better now than I have felt in 20 years.
My doctor wrote a letter; I’ll soon hit the road to many cheers.
While I’m not a physician, I have made the statement I am cured.
At least that’s what I’m wishin’, after all the treatments I’ve endured.
There still are many questions, such as: just what is my viral load?
I call myself the Blessed One – though my campaign’s in survival mode.
I called Harris a monster, and unlikeable, a communist.
I’m certain no one wants her; I recycle insults from my list.
Her talents I’ve declared void as I’ve ranted over Kamala.
Could it be due to steroids I’ve launched all this psychodrama? Duh.
Since I contracted COVID, I’ve appeared to be a bit deranged.
A cure I have promoted; plans to make it free I will arrange.
I’m pushing for the vaccine to be ready by Election Day.
And though sometimes I act mean, steroids give me an erection. Yay!
There’s less than four weeks left once all the votes from this weird scrum are cast;
I claim there’ll be a theft if final quotes show that I’ve come in last.
I’ve lobbed a lot of mud and lowered discourse quite considerably.
The job I’ve done’s a dud. It’s clear, of course – I’ve failed miserably.
The Trump Poems 