I Can't Get Past That Hair

Hey, Gotham Town:
who's trickling down
that up- and down-
ward stair?
Despite his myth,
he's short on pith.
(And what’s it with
that hair?)

The umpteenth time

he blusters, “I’m
a bigly bil-
lionaire!”
I beg him, “Bro,
just let it go!”
(Be that a ‘fro…
that hair?)

He pouts, “I plan

a Muslim ban.”
(Most muse, “He can-
not dare.”)
Perhaps he’ll stew
and think it through.
(And then shampoo 
that hair...?)

His twitter feed’s

‘mysogyny’d.’
Chauvin? Indeed: 
he's there.
Perhaps he can’t
control his rant.
(A plug implant…
that hair?)

Of tax returns

a show he spurns.
(He never learns
to share.)
The man is ill,
a psycho. (Still…
that’s one weird hill…
that hair.)

He's “crim’nally

uncurious,” Mark
Shields reveals
on air.
Perhaps he is
(though that’s his biz).
(Do stylists frizz 
that hair?)

Gals grabs he (gads!)

by p words -- adds,
“they let you, lads,
nor care.”
Does ‘Vanka blink?
Does ‘Vanka wink?
(Does ‘Vanka think
that’s hair?)

The handicapp'd

he mock'd. Rubes clapp'd.
And Congress napp'd. 
'Tain't fair.
“I never did!
Me? God forbid!”
(The man's pure id...
with hair.)

Him? Navigate

the ship of state?
We’ll all catch hate-
de-mer.
He lacks the skill
for steering. (Still,
I’m in…until
that hair.)

Into each room

he roams? Ka-boom!
He sucks up --zoom! -- 
all air.
Narcissus-like
he grabs the mic.
(Do people like
that hair?)

Who sang at Don’s

inaug’ral? B'yon-
ce? Bono? John?
Not Cher!
No stars came out.
‘Twas all about
(no doubt) his sprout
of hair.)

In thrall to lies,

he falsifies.
He fails at Truth
or Dare.
His fibs and guiles
extend…for miles.
(Who reconciles
that hair?)

He made a vow

to disallow
Barack’s Oba-
macare.
Perhaps he will.
(Most hope not.) Still…
I’ve had my fill
of Herr.

He now eschews

grand South Lawn views,
prefers to choose
his lair.
At Mar-a-Lago stay! 
Okay? (Say…
is that hay
or hair?)

His border wall?

In dead free fall.
(He specs expects 
to pare.)
Claims he: “Some folks 
don’t get my jokes.”
(Then Fallon pokes 
that hair.)

The Press? It’s dead:

He tweets instead.
The man’s one head- 
case rare,
each twitter feed
a bitter screed.
(He is, indeed,
all hair.)

To pay his lend-
ers? God forfend! 
Here’s him: Zut! C’est

la guerre!”
Then writes ‘em off.
Then cheats…at golf!  
(Still…what God-awf-
ul hair!)

Attache’s ears

attack'd? State fear’s
that Cuba spears 
their share.
Did foreign thugs
deploy those bugs?
(Ill-fitting rugs
ain’t hair.)

Aside from ISIS -- 

still a crisis -- 
name one vice he'd 
pare?
Prescription drugs?
“Quite bad,” he shrugs.
(Hey! Are those plugs…
in there?)

So: will this worm 

serve out his term?
Will White House germs
he bear?
His overreach
incites “Impeach!”
(When does he bleach
that hair?)

Perhaps he’ll die

in office. I
to heaven ply
that prayer.
I do believe
that’s how he’ll leave.
(Is that a weave…
that hair?)

So: what's the poop?

A wig? A toup?
What’s goin’ on
up there?
Still, notwithstanding
all his lies,
the made-up guff
that liar plies,
despite the hates 
each tweet creates,
the myths with which
his base he baits,
although the cat’s
an autocrat
(and certainly 
no diplomat) 
and yet, in spite
of all of that,
I can’t get past
that hair…I still

cannot get past

that hair!