(With apologies to Robert Frost)
Whose words these are by now we know.
His tower is in the city so
He cannot see us gathered here
To hear his words with pain and fear.
His thoughtless thoughts are more than strange,
His soul's a void, his tan is queer -
The darkest day (so far) this year.
His words teem from a mind that's blank,
A cocksure foghorn honking swank;
His little fingers prod the air,
His rasping bullshit's everywhere.
His words are dreary, dark and fake.
The prick has promises to break -
And years to go before we wake,
And years to go before we wake.