Trump, In Verse

An imagined conversation…
One day, my son, when you grow up – there is the possibility
that you could be the President of these United States.
(Your sister can’t, of course. She’ll need to focus on fertility.)
But you will lead us into bliss and out of desperate straits.

The first thing that you’ll need to do is clear out every immigrant,
including those who came here with our promise to protect.
Just use a dated law to make their deportation imminent,
while making claims our country’s blood they’re going to infect.

It’s not an easy life; this occupation known as politics –
it calls for someone brave and handsome, mentally quite strong.
And where a lesser person might throw up their hands and call it quits,
you’ll persevere, eliminating those who don’t belong.

You’ll state (but won’t corroborate) our country has been occupied
by people who’ve escaped or been set free from foreign prisons.
They’re taking all the jobs while real Americans are knocked aside;
to get a loaf of bread will be a life-or-death decision.

They’re predisposed to murder; it’s the way they’re built genetically.
They’re bringing crime, they’re bringing drugs; they’re rapists (some are good).
They’re staging an invasion. You’ll proclaim – not hypothetically –
they’re eating cats and dogs (then claim you’ve been misunderstood).

The future’s looking dim, my son. But just you, single-handedly,
can make our country great again; deliver us from blight.
You’ll only lose if Jews and Blacks and women (I say candidly)
don’t vote for you – along with those who don’t know wrong from right.