Trump, In Verse

If I had been a soldier, I’m sure I’d have been the best one.
I’d have stood my ground, relentless, as I watched all of the rest run;
neither loser nor a sucker, I would dominate in brave fights.
But… I wasn’t. So, instead – I chose to trample on their gravesites.

To the hallowed ground of Arlington, I sent my emissaries
(when it comes to resting places – it’s the tops in cemeteries).
Planned a simple, somber visit, with two families in tow;
not a part of my campaigning (though we shot some video).

An employee at the cemetery, gracious and polite,
said the rules did not permit this. Our response: less than contrite.
We berated the employee, who was rudely pushed aside,
and once questioned what had happened, my spokespeople baldly lied:

“There was not an altercation, as the footage we took showed.“
“That employee clearly suffered from a mental episode.”
“Posted rules did not apply since we were there by invitation.”
“We were well within our rights and won’t admit to desecration.”

Honoring those warriors – allegedly the pretense;
while standing there I offered up, not just two, but my three cents.
Our exit from Afghanistan was surely controversial –
but so was using graves as props in my campaign commercial.

Debate about withdrawal from that region can be fair game –
but to campaign on the gravesites and the tombstones bearing their names
is unseemly, maladroit, and brings dishonor to the dead.
And since I’ve chosen not to serve, I’ve had a life of ease instead.