Trump, In Verse

The only thing I’m guilty of is being pure of heart.
I’m a very stable genius, so good-looking and whip-smart.
But right now a jury’s settled on – or so they’re tellin’ me –
that I somehow managed to commit a stack of felonies.

Appealing my conviction? Yes, of course; it’s all a scam.
I’m your all-time favorite President; I have been and still am.
I must make it known I’m innocent – of that I am, most very,
and I’ve made that point so many times it’s supernumerary.

The judge who ruled against me can be only called a “devil.”
Where my knowledge of the law’s supreme, this tyrant’s is low-level.
My attorneys kept me off the stand from giving testimony;
I once used to call them “Esquire,” but I now call them “jabroni.”

I, of course, contest the verdict and will soon file an appeal.
In the meantime, I will spin this like a lit-up Catherine Wheel.
There’s three other cases claiming that I perpetrated more crimes –
but for now, this stone-cold fact: I am a felon, thirty-four times.