Trump, In Verse

I want to try and get to heaven – if there is a chance.
But I’m not doing well, I hear, last time I stole a glance.
I’m really at the bottom of the pole they call a totem.
The bylaws for a membership? Not clear to me who wrote ‘em.

If I can end another war, perhaps that tips the scales.
I’ve settled six seven ten, and yet – the devil’s found in the details.
Three of that fishy total were just “pre-wars” – a dispute.
So what? I want a medal from the Nobel Institute.

A man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for?
I’ve grasped some by the pussy, which is not a sin when you’re
a star, since they will let you do it – you’ll recall my famous boast;
found churlish by the Father, and the Son, and Holy Ghost.

The Scriptures – I’ve been told – say that a man reaps what he’s sowing.
I walk the path of righteousness, although my pace is slowing.
And if, on my ascension, I am sentenced to damnation –
I’ll spout off on Truth Social and demand God’s resignation.