Poems
by Tony
Dawson
North American Conundrum
Leif took European life to North America
and Theda Bara death, unwittingly.
There, the devil turned his back,
lived the evil inherent in his name
to emphasize how vile he is,
though he likes to draw a veil over it.
Trump’s Headstone
Here lies Donald J. Trump.
Maybe in one sense he does
Maybe in the other he doesn’t.
Perhaps he’s dead
Perhaps he’s not.
Who knows?
Maybe he hasn’t decided yet.
Maybe in two weeks…
Donald II
The Second Coming
Now is the winter of our discontent
Made dumber by this son of a bitch
And all the crowds that smiled upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
The Donald’s brow is wreathed in thinning quiff;
Our merry meetings changed to stern alarums
Our delightful measures to dreadful panics.
Grim-visaged trade war hath wrinkled his front;
And now, he’s mounting revenge attacks
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries.
He wields Executive Orders like a sword
And hurls percentage-pointed tariffs o’er the seas.
But he, that is not shaped for sportive tricks,
Needs must cheat at golf and shame real tennis,
Vainly loves to court an amorous looking-glass;
And therefore, since he cannot prove a lover,
Because it reduces the monies in his treasury,
He is determined to prove a villain.
