I Can't Get Past the Hair (Past)

Hey, Gotham Town!
Who’s slinking down
that escalator 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 billionaire!”
I beg him, “Bro,
please let it go!”
(Be that a ‘fro…
that hair…?)
 
He pouts, “I plan
a Muslim ban.”
(Most muse, “He can-
not dare.”)
Awhile he’ll stew,
not think it through,
and then shampoo
his hair.)
 
His twitter feed…?
Misogyny’d.
Chauvin'd…? Indeed,
he’s there.
Perhaps he can’t
control his rant.
(What…? Plug-implant-
ed 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…
of hair.)
 
He’s “crim’nally
uncurious,” Mark
Shields reveals
on air.
Perhaps he is.
If so, his biz.
(Do stylists frizz
that hair…?)
 
Gals...? Grabs he (gads!)
their 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.
His par-
ry…?.“Never did!
Me…? God forbid!”
(The man’s pure id…
cum hair.)
 
Him…? Navigate
a ship of state…?
We’ll all catch hate-
de-mer.
He lacks all skill
for steering. (Still,
I’m in…until
the hair.)
 
Into each room
he roams…? Ka-boom!
He sucks up
all the air.
Narcissus-like
he grabs each mic.
(Do people like
that hair…?)
 
Who sang at Don’s
inaug’ral…? B’yon-
ce…? Bono…? John…?
Did Cher…?
No stars came out.
‘Twas all about
(no doubt) that sprout
of hair.
 
In thrall to lies,
he falsifies.
He fails at Truth
or Dare.
His fibs ‘n’ guiles
extend…for miles.
(Who reconciles
that hair…?)
 
He made a vow
to disallow
Barack’s Obama-
care.
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
his hair.)
 
The Press…? It’s dead:
He tweets instead.
The man’s a head-
case rare,
each twitter feed
a bitter screed.
(He is, indeed,
all hair.)
 
To pay his lenders…?
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
Attacked…? 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…?
“So sad,” he shrugs.
(Hey! Are those plugs
you wear…?)
 
So: will this worm
serve out his term…?
Will White House germs
he bear…?
His overreach
incites: “Impeach!”
(Say! 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!