Behold the bitch with golden straw for hair,
Not silver, mind you, golden everywhere.
Born into towers gilded, sleek and tall,
Each childhood tear was crying over gall,
For all the world conspired, as did fate,
To treat this lucky bastard second-rate.
Oh, bone spurs, how you saved his pampered hide,
From Viet jungles, napalm, Yankee pride;
Four times he tried to don the hero’s gear,
Four times he failed – the price of rich kid fear.
“I suffer so!” he sniffled through his youth,
America’s most tragic, richest truth.
His war? A battlefield of silken sheets,
A thousand notches racked upon deceit.
He braved syphilitic minefields every night,
Yet boasts, “No bug or crabs catch me in flight!”
His Vietnam was fought with self-employed might,
No medal earned for such a cocky fight.
In business suits, he mugged for every frame,
A Hollywood mirage to mask his shame.
Bankruptcy his hobby – count the times!
More bankrupt than the tally of his crimes.
And though he groped with stubby, sticky fingers,
It’s lawsuits, not regrets, where grievance lingers.
“My pain is real!” he cries from marble halls,
A victim’s voice resounding through the walls.
Elected once by grift – such grand disaster,
Elected twice (in dreams), his loss came faster.
But turnabout and whining are his trade,
A loser’s anthem soundly, loudly played.
January’s sixth – so silent, so demure –
“Wasn’t me, I slept through all for sure!”
He blames decrepit Joe for all that falls,
From border woes to cracks in oval walls.
And just for laughs, that Californian mistake –
“The Joe Biden Fault!” – for ratings’ sake.
A clown in corpulence, in tie too long,
Whose raucous rallies drown out sober song.
No jester ever juggled truth and lies
With such a glint – how fast his fiction flies!
Yet millions cheer for every jibe and jest,
A nation’s drama queen, in gold lamé dressed.
He tweets from exile, claims the numbers lie,
“Fake news!” he wails into the Twitter sky.
With every loss, the whimpering grows shrill,
Inventing martyrs’ crowns to fit his bill.
Each case, each scandal, sued or shamed or fined,
“The greatest witch hunt ever!” – never mind.
From Trump steaks, vodka, to a failing school,
He grifts, he gaslights – plays them all for fools.
Presidential library? Something neat –
A Hall of Grievance, bitterness for meat.
“Look at my ratings!” he pleads with painted face,
The whiniest bitch still hungry for the race.
All history will note in time to come,
Not wisdom, peace, nor grace for anyone,
But tantrums pitched and grievances galore,
The loudest loser – hard to just ignore.
A legend not for heroism’s itch,
But for the art of being America’s bitch.
by Bakchos
