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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!

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