Little Trumplethinskin
Types lies into fake gold
He types all day he types all night
Oh man, his lies were bold!
Surrounded by false glittery
From toes to top of head
The only thing that wasn’t gold
His little hands, stained red
That grumpy Trumplethinskin
Decided what was best
Was give his little hands a break
They badly needed rest
But he could not stop lying
Quell his penchant for gold spinning
Dim hunger for his sycophants
Or his pathetic need for winning
So little Trumplethinskin
Sits on his throne all day
Tapping lies into fake gold
And to him that is okay
"Everyone still loves me
‘Cause they think I’m oh so rich
These fools too dumb to figure out
My lies for gold I switch!"
But Trumplethinskin was to see
Fake gold will lose its shine
And offers no protection when
The Truth sits down to dine
This tale is far from over now
I am happy to report
He’ll have to find a way to spin
His lies but inside court
His chickens have come home to roost
His just desserts are served
For those of us that saw through him
He got what he deserves
And just like tales of old have done
They show us good can win
And in particular for a twit
Like Ol’ Trump-thin-of-skin
My hope is that this moron stomps
In rage right through the floor
And that he’s held accountable
And from him we’ll hear no more!