Seventy-six Trump phones caught the mourning sun,
With a hundred and ten hacked nets right behind.
There were more than a thousand tweets, springing up like frightened bleats;
There was scorn of every japing kind.
There was a copper-colored President, all full of gas [a horse’s …?]
Thundering, blundering all along the way.
Scores of sycophants and military brass,
Each one praising Donald all the way!
Mike Thompson
Seventy-six Trump phones caught the mourning sun,
With a hundred and ten hacked nets right behind.
There were more than a thousand tweets, springing up like frightened bleats;
There was scorn of every japing kind.
There was a copper-colored President, all full of gas [a horse’s …?]
Thundering, blundering all along the way.
Scores of sycophants and military brass,
Each one praising Donald all the way!