Saturday, October 22, 2016

The Ballad of Tiny Hands – The Fall and Fall of Donald Trump

“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

Saturday, October 8, 2016

Ode to a Toad: A Poem for Donald Trump

“Nobody respects women more than I do.” – Donald Trump

“I just start kissing them. It’s like a magnet. Just kiss. I don’t even wait. And when you’re a star they let you do it. You can do anything. Grab them by the p*ssy. You can do anything." – Donald Trump

Oh, Donald J. Trump, that stupid, stupid, stupid (on into infinity), petty, powerless, impotent, insane, little inch worm of a pale imitation of a man, after tens of thousands of boners and faux pas, and the general comportment of a hate-filled raving lunatic, a Dexter Morgan without the inordinate supply of Saran-Wrap, it appears his recorded admission of repeated sexual assaults may finally slay this destructive and corrosive campaign.

Be it through incarceration, sanitarium commitment or simply by a majority of the U.S. population running him out of our country with torches and pitchforks, we will soon be free of the lying, cheating, stealing, molesting, worthless parasite on humanity, and feral feces flinging, unevolved primate that proud Republicans have chosen as their presidential cream of the crop, and party standard bearer.

And so, while perhaps a tad premature, “… and several butcher’s aprons” happily takes this opportunity to bid adieu to this national embarrassment and bedbug in the boudoir of every inhabitant of this great blue planet, with a simple little poem entitled, “It’s Time to Say Goodbye to Trump.” Enjoy, and please share, for nothing would be more gratifying than the discovery that somehow this vindictive vitriol in verse appeared in front of Belial’s beady peepers, for an underpaid and physically harassed assistant to read aloud to the illiterate debtor.

“I moved on her like a bitch, but I couldn’t get there. And she was married. Then all of a sudden I see her, she’s now got the big phony t*ts and everything.” – Donald Trump

It’s Time to Say Goodbye to Trump

It’s time to say goodbye to Trump,
Whose brain, I’m told, is but a stump
Composed of mealy worms and lice,
And other things not quite that nice.

His soul, his Dad had plated gold,
His heart, removed at 5 years old.
His hands, sewn on from baby dolls,
His glans, determine protocols.

So fond is he of lawless sex,
From minor girls, to daughter’s pecks,
That Donald’s fully in his glory,
When boasting of deeds statutory.

Each trophy wife came C.O.D.
To be exchanged at 43.
Each marriage marred by his deceit
Each bride sent back, return receipt.

He stole funds raised for wounded vets,
To cover huge financial debts.
He ridicules their war born stress,
When called, Trump hid ‘neath Momma’s dress.

No coward is there more than he
Who picks on other’s frailty.
If weak or burdened with disease,
You're fodder for Trump cruelties.

It’s time to say goodbye to Trump,
By any gauge, a horse’s rump

“All the rainbows in the sky
Start to even say goodbye,
You won’t be seeing rainbows any more.
Setting suns before they fall,
Echo to you, that’s all, that’s all.
But you’ll see lonely sunset after all.
It’s over. It’s over. It’s over.” – Roy Orbison

Any comments, questions, criticisms, candid confessions, cash contributions? Contact me at butchersaprons@mail.com.