Trump used to be the president,
Dishonest and incompetent.
Since Jack Smith has been diligent;
Donald soils his trousers.

Chorus melody: The sun will rise, the sun will set,
With Trump caught in a legal net.
And though he’s not convicted yet,
Trump still soils his trousers.

The Donald is a narcissist,
Effectively a monarchist.
Since Jack Smith’s charges still persist.
Donald soils his trousers.

Chorus melody: With most of Trump’s debts coming due,
From charges you can bet are true,
Incontinent of number two,
Donald soils his trousers.

Now everywhere that Donald goes,
A judge says, “One reaps what he sows.”
Though Trump strikes a defiant pose,
Donald soils his trousers.

Chorus melody: That’s what a life of fraud begets;
Since Jack Smith doesn’t fear his threats,
Though Trump says he has no regrets,
He must change his trousers.

Since Donald is a reprobate,
Indictments will accumulate.
Jack Smith has made Trump defecate.
And he soiled his trousers.

Chorus melody: The storm clouds build; an ill wind blows
From court to court where Donald goes,
A fetid smell assaults the nose:
Trump has soiled his trousers.

(1) Sing to, “Donald, Where’s Your Trousers,” a song about Scottish Highland lads who wear a kilt (without underwear.) There are numerous recordings.