Trump, In Verse

I do not understand much French
If you say, “manqué” – I think “wrench.”
A small brown bag? That’s a bag-ette.
I’ll eat a Denver om-e-lette.

With Stormy Daniels – an affair.
Did I admit it? Oh, contraire!
Election fraud obsesses me,
so I refuse to say, “La vie!”

And now this woman, Kayleigh Mc
Enany (used to be my flack) –
“DeSantis closes gap!” she’ll boast.
So now she is, to me, milktoast.

A milquetoast in French dialect
(their spelling: WRONG! Mine is correct.)
means someone timid, feeble, weak;
a real loser, so to speak.

The globalists can have this chick;
her statement was impolitic.
A RINO is what’s she’s become
(“buffone,” in French vernaculum).

I’ll run again, won’t quit until
le plaisir passe (quite literal).
Since I reject noblesse oblige,
I’m staging one more power siege.

Asa, Nikki, Ron, Tim Scott –
not one possesses what I’ve got.
I’m full of it; they’re just hot air.
How would I rate their savoir? Fair.

What is my lifelong joie de vivre?
“Don’t give away what you receive.”
I’ve got the whole field running scared.
Me, Prez again? Oh, holy merde!