Trump, In Verse

Kristi Noem
As I was having dinner with my family at a restaurant, something happened – I was victim of a crime, which was appallin’.
Someone walked off with my Gucci bag: a bandit in dark clothing. It appears my purse was purloined – or, as Trump would say, was STOLLEN.
In that pouch were just the normal things a woman’s known to carry – like some makeup, and my passport, and a few bucks for a taxi –
(just in case I might get stranded; I don’t care for Lyft or Uber) – and a vial of medication that I take, to help relax me.

I was dining with my family; we went out for gourmet burgers. That’s a typical event; I had no reason to be nervous.
I’m a mother and a grandma, not the kind to draw attention. And, besides – at the next table were some folks from Secret Service.
I perhaps forgot to mention I’m a Cabinet official. I’m the Secretary; my department’s called Homeland Security.
I appear in different costumes, with ICE agents as my sidekicks. But when I’m not shooting puppies, I live my life in obscurity.

Some have questioned why I carried so much moola in my totebag, with a wad of cash that dwarfed that of a man I had deported.
An “administrative error” – yet despite the stark admission, I deny back to the USA that he should be transported.
It’s a battle in the courtrooms, as the government keeps stalling. Now, excuse me while I call to cancel all my cards of credit.
As regards the constitutional foundation of “due process”? It has vanished, like my purse did. Getting either back? Forget it.