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.

 

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