Donald Trump, the spoiled brat,
Is afraid someone will rat
On the crimes that he cooked up;
That’s what’s got him all shook up.
With his sphincters getting lax,
True to form, he still attacks.
Trump says he’s done nothing wrong,
Though his list of crimes is long.
He could face one hundred years;
That’s the sum of all his fears.
His defense is to delay,
Hoping something breaks his way.
Documents stored in the john:
Take a dump and gaze upon
Toilet paper, “Classified,”
Have some spies been edified?
Grand Old Potty, unsecured,
No security insured.
Trump supporters have not read
The indictments but instead,
They engage in, “What about….”
All intended to cast doubt
On the facts and on the law.
Truth itself becomes a flaw.
Donald claims he has the right
To keep papers; that’s despite
All the laws and precedents,
They lose their authority
For the people’s property.
Donald can’t dispute the facts,
Doesn’t try, he just attacks.
“Persecution!” Trump complains;
“Prosecution,” Smith explains.
Out there on the campaign stump,
“Crock of Ages,” Donald Trump.
(1) Sing to “Rock of Ages,” by Augustus Toplady, 1763. The story is interesting. Look it up.