“You know, it really doesn’t matter what the media
write as long as you’ve got a young, and beautiful, piece of ass.” –
Donald Trump
Donald J. Trump, a human
being so relentlessly repulsive, so utterly and completely void of value or worth or
of a single redeemable positive quality; a man of whom the ghost of Judas once remarked,
“see, I’m not looking so bad now, am I?”; who learned all of his courting and
seduction techniques from Jack the Ripper; and who had the Devil sell his soul
to him - has apparently and frighteningly become my muse!
Yes, once again, “… and
several butcher’s aprons” hesitantly presents, for your perusal and amusement,
another in an ever growing series of comedic pokes at The Man Who Would Be Fuhrer.
And, for a second consecutive time, the
spoof is penned in rhyme (see what I did there?). At the risk of repetition, should
these constant condemnations of the Earl of Orange cause but one of his current
supporters to even pause for further thought and consideration before setting the
burning cross aflame, and then pulling the lever for the Donald, as the cliché states,
my job here is done.
What follows may be a tad
on the sophomoric, if not stupid side - as confirmed by the perhaps too
frequent allusions to genitalia - but then, there are some subjects so puerile
and fatuous in nature, that sophomoric emerges as the exact correct tone and
tenor.
As this, the blog world’s lengthiest
set-up, mercifully drawers nearer to its conclusion, a final note – when writing
and reading this derogatory verse, I have a melody in my head (and a song in my
heart.) Maybe you can summon it, as well. Think, Middle Ages, perhaps the
Renaissance – a King rests upon his plush throne, a jester stands nearby, and
at the sovereign’s say, we hear the music of an ocarina, a flute, a lute, a
zither and dulcimer, led by a vocalist, very simIlar in sound to a young Alan Jones (a reference for my sizeable 100 and over readership.) On the other hand, I fear I may have just ripped off the
theme from Gilligan’s Island. You decide.
“All of the
women on The Apprentice flirted with me – consciously or unconsciously. That’s
to be expected.” – Donald Trump
The Ballad
of Tiny Hands
This is the tale of an evil man,
‘Twas neither brave nor true.
In every way a Medieval man,
A foul knave, through and through.
Every fair lass that would pass his way
Would feel his tiny hands.
Whenever asked, he would lie and say,
They loved his sex demands.
This is the ballad of Tiny Hands
His legend grew and grew.
Sadly for him and his many wives
Trump’s tower did not too.
Even his daughter was not immune
From his perverted gaze.
Barely a teen when this warped tycoon
Began his flirty praise.
One fair day he rode on a coach
For Access Hollywood
Confessed to his grabby hand approach
A molester’s folly would.
Came damsels and dames from across the globe,
To tell of his assaults.
When faced with this grueling public probe
He fell from his vile faults.
This is the ballad of Tiny Hands
His legend grew and grew.
Sadly for him and his many wives
Trump’s tower did not too.
So what of the world’s most conceited man,
Does he yet understand?
He’ll end as the world’s most defeated man.
Farewell to Tiny Hands.
“My
fingers are long and beautiful, as, it has been well documented, are various
other parts of my body.” – Donald Trump
“Sitting on a sofa on a Sunday afternoon
Going to the candidates debate
Laugh about it, shout about it
When you've got to choose
Ev'ry way you look at it, you lose” – Paul Simon
Any comments, questions, criticisms, candid confessions,
cash contributions? Contact me at butchersaprons@mail.c
