Nor had la frontera del sur escaped the notice of the Orange One
Of Mexico’s long border snaking through the South
From San Diego in California, to Arizona, Joe Arpaio’s home,
Stout-hearted sheriff, implacable enemy of the ACLU,
And then to New Mexico, what, the master thinker wondered,
New Mexico? Would it take to change that horrible name?
Executive Order? Or would he be required to enlist the M&M boys,
McConnell and McCarthy, in the Congress, awful place?
Then Texas, how they loved him there! Sweet people!
To the border he devoted a few Trumpian thoughts every day,
Even now, as he slowly lifted his great globular glutes,
Behemoth-ish buttocks out of bed, Melania nowhere to be found.
He traipsed to the cavernous can, preparing for the presidential poop,
The executive excrement, all the while thinking about it.
He had to admit, he’d underestimated little Peña Nieto,
Lord of Mexicans, inheritor of blessed Benito Juarez,
When he’d demanded a check for the mighty wall;
Only to be rebuffed, oh how infuriated was the Trump!
He’d expected more from Vicente Fox, Peña Nieto’s predecessor,
Fox was smart, he spoke English after all, but he’d told the Trump
To go fuck himself, how the Trump had fulminated over that!
A shattering war-cry the Man of Manhattan had loosed upon Taco-land,
Angry threats, bold and unyielding bluster, yet to his wonderment,
Los Mexicanos supported their president, and not the Trump!
Now upon the golden throne the Trump rested, silently
Begged the gods for movement, for quick relief;
He’d heard stories of how old Mao Zedong, in his dotage,
Sometimes had to wait weeks, eventually calling in an
Army Colonel, specially chosen, the highest of honors,
Possessed of smooth fingers and well-trimmed nails,
To reach in and clean the Chairman out.
The doctors, those kindly souls at Walter Reed,
They’d given him some pills for that, but
The Trump didn’t like taking them, unexpected effects,
The malodorous valve, the spurting sphincter, unleashed
At inopportune moments, sometimes during meetings
Very bad, very bad.
Time to tweet!
The Wall is the Wall, his fingers glided across his phone,
It has never changed! Raining down terror on his foes now!
Colossal caravans of criminals! Rapists and murderers!
Dems want open borders! On a roll now!
Build the Wall! Crime will fall! Hmm, good rally material,
He thought, low-IQ types can remember that! Good one,
He congratulated himself, as he often did, and just like that
A pair of lustrous, lumpy loaves dropped quietly into the bowl
Which then emitted an ever-so-fragrant fizz.
Reinvigorated, the great Trump Triumphant, the Merchant of Manhattan,
Pulled up his pants; then bounded down the elevator to the
Office of Oval. There, sitting behind the Resolute,
Mexico still on his mind, he called Kirstjen the Blonde,
Boss of Homeland Security, for a progress report.
Three hundred sixty miles, she answered in her delicate voice,
But only five are new. Taken aback, the Executive Excrementor
Asked to understand. So much had to be repaired,
The Lady of Colorado shot back. And so, so expensive!
She added, never one to fool around when funding was concerned,
Especially when the portly president had his wallet open.
Furious then, the angry Trump summoned the Cabinet,
Worthless mediocrities all, in his view, in him alone lay the genius,
And his orders rang out across the Mall, spurring them to action,
“Build the wall!” he cried, “transfer the funds!
“Schools for Army brats, who cares? The VA, who cares?
Drones and C-130’s! Ospreys and Lightnings, who needs ‘em?
Send it to Kirstjen! Send it all!
More awe-inspiring than the Great Wall of China will be
The Greater Wall of Trump!” More and more tweets
Swirling through the endless tubes of the infinite internet,
“OUR VERY DANGEROUS SOUTHERN BORDER,” all caps!
ALL CAPS! Now people would know how serious the threat!
Just then Kelly swept into the Oval, greeted his great chief,
“Sir, time to leave,” he reminded the Terror of Twitter,
Respect in his voice, but the Trump didn’t believe it,
Didn’t trust these generals, if so smart they were,
Why weren’t they rich? For the true measure of a man,
He reflected, an American Express Black card.
“Sir?” Kelly persisted. “The NATO Summit?”
“Of course,” the Trump snapped back; as if he’d forgotten!
The very thought!
Well, he had, but never acknowledge an error
Before a paeon: Fred had drilled that into him.
Yes, the NATO Summit,
In Brussels! Another chance to appear before the cameras,
To stride across the world stage, the Corpulent Colossus!
(Where was Brussels, anyway, he wondered, checking his phone,
Didn’t ask of course; France? Indolaysia? Czechosloberbia?)
“Ah…Belgium,” he discovered, unaccountably using his outdoor voice,
“Sir?” Kelly raised his gray, battle-hewn eyebrows.
“It is good,” solemnly proclaimed the Trump in reply, nodding slowly.
“What is good, sir?” His Chief of Staff wanted to know.
The questions! Always with the questions! the Trump frowned.
“It is good, ah, to know where we are going.”
After a refreshing snooze on the baby blue Air Force One,
And another successful bombing run over the executive toilet bowl,
The Trump was raring to go! Ready to brawl in Brussels!
First up: Miss Kay, Ambassador to NATO, he lit into her,
Sounded weak on the Sunday talk shows! Then
Skinny Jens Stoltenberg, SecGen of the Alliance,
The Trump had news for him! Oh, yes!
Fair share! The Trump cried, a raging firestorm in his eyes.
America is tired of paying for it all, other countries
Not paying their due! The stolid Norwegian took it all in,
Tried to convince the Trump to do otherwise,
To no avail. No, thundered the Man from Manhattan,
The Son of Fred, America may depart, leave NATO,
What do we need it for? “If England is attacked, we’ll help,
We’ll save the Queen and my golf courses there,
The Jaguar factory and Rolls Royce too,
But what do we care for Macedonia?” he challenged
The Secretary-General, whose face had whitened a bit.
Then, on to the Summit, and they were all there,
Theresa May, had to be nice to her, visiting her next,
No sense spoiling it, but her moment would come.
Treacherous Trudeau, the backstabber, supercilious smiler,
Erdoğan from Turkey, King of the Cranberries, a strongman,
A man’s man, someone the Mighty Manhattanite could deal with!
Lords and masters, presidents and prime ministers,
Estonia and Romania and Azerbaijan and Slovakia
They bowed down before the Trump, even though
He’d never heard of those countries before. Others, too, had come:
Smooth-talking Macron the moron, mad Angela Merkel
How the Trump taunted her! In Putin’s pocket, he claimed,
A puppet, and all because of a pipeline, bringing Siberian gas.
How he stormed, and the Snivelling Snitches caught it all
In glorious high definition, yes, delighted he was to be in Brussels,
Bustling capital of Bulgoland! Again he railed against the cheapskates,
The tightwads, not paying their fair share, skinflints all,
“I may not know about the law or about diplomacy,”
He shouted at them, mute they remained in fear of his awesome words,
“Even though I do, of course, but I do know about money!
Pay up or else! Yes, I’ll have friends, big friends,
Knocking on your doors in the middle of the night!”
Well-satisfied was the Trump with his words, his mighty oration,
Put them all in their place he had!
Then: off to England
Not to London, for the cheerful inhabitants of the scepter’d isle
Amazingly didn’t want him there, so misguided!
A diapered golden-haired balloon silently soared above Piccadilly,
Right over Nelson’s Column, somehow the Democrats were behind it.
They met at Chequers, even though the Trump had played
Neither it nor chess: so hard! England being a little country,
And Theresa May being of the female gender, weak by nature,
Too accommodating, too understanding, too appeasing,
The Trump, Hope of the World, decided it would be best
If he showed her how it was done. Over dinner,
A perfectly prepared prime rib, he berated her over Brexit,
Leave the slimy continentals, don’t look back,
Continuing his harangue he let her know, no trade deal
Unless Britain leaves! Then, before the cameras,
The Snitches taking down every word, he complained
The vicar’s daughter, Churchill’s inheritor,
Hadn’t listened to him, though he told her how to do it.
Nor had he finished his remarks, for stone-faced May
Had all but ignored him over dinner, made her displeasure plain
Declared the land of Diana and Dickens, of Turing and Top Gear
Would go its own way,
Thank you very much.
And so for this insult the Trump owed her payback,
On Fox and Sky and BBC he endorsed his old buddy,
Bubbling Boris, declared the Blond Bombshell of Britain
Yes, BoJo, he’d make a great PM!
He showed her!
Then, for the trifecta, back in the blue Boeing,
To Helsinki, the most important meeting of them all!
Northward they flew, and in the forward cabin,
Luxuriously appointed – though not nearly as shiny
As on Trump’s own craft – the Man with the Golden Hair
Deigned to engage in light conversation with his lackeys,
Beagle-like Bolton and fat Mike, Kelly too,
Casually wondering if Finland were actually part of Russia;
A notion the wide-eyed advisors quickly set to rest. “Just checking,”
Chuckled the Trump, “to see if you knew.”
On the ground, the Trump’s very own limousine, the Trumpmobile,
Inches upon inches of state-of-the-art steel alloy protecting its
Peerless passenger, carried him off to the hotel,
The Kalastajatorppa in the Munkkiniemi neighborhood, just
Near Laajalahit Bay and a short walk from the Bastuviksvagen bus stop;
So many times in the car the Trump tried to say them, in vain,
“Are you fucking kidding me?” in despair throwing up his hands, finally deciding
Helsinki should have a Trump Hotel, for pronunciation purposes
If nothing else.
The next morning, the Americans waited. And waited.
For Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin, the submariner’s son, the master tactician
Wanted it that way. Finally they got word that he’d departed Moscow,
Aboard his giant Ilyushin 96, almost as big as Air Force One,
Four mighty engines, carrying the Lord of All the Russias
To his fateful meeting. The Trump, never one to overlook a slight,
Remained in his room at the Kala—Kalastapoppawoppa —in his hotel,
For a while, made Putin wait a bit. The score evened, they
Shook hands, for all to see, at Finland’s Presidential Palace,
Lovely building, pale yellow, swans swimming out front,
Yes, Cinderella would be at the ball this evening, they assured the Trump.
After the Snitches got their photos, Putin leaned forward,
Whispered in the hairy ear of the Trump,
And the Dealmaster was well pleased, for the Russian leader
Desired to meet alone, the Trump approved,
The better to have a give and take, without bureaucrats
Hemming and hawing, equivocating and objecting; mano y mano!
That’s how we get it done in New York, he told Bolton and fat Mike,
Both cringing at the idea.
The two titans, with their interpreters,
Though the Viscount of the Volga spoke perfect English, he’d decided
Russian, for now. Sitting on velvet chairs, Putin, the Trump,
Champions of their peoples, faced one another.
The Golden-Haired One began, revealing his earnest hope to the Slav,
That peace, harmony, and plentiful profit be theirs, forever and ever, amen.
“I still have the tape,” Putin at once returned;
And as the pale clouds of fall replace sun-filled days of summer,
So too the color vanished from the visage of the Trump,
Nor did he offer a reply to the master of tactics before him.
Putin reached into his jacket, pulled out a deck of index cards,
And began in a quiet voice, “Let us begin.
First, on the matter of Syria, that troubled land,
Where our friend and staunch ally Assad, under assault from Al-Qaeda
Those evil wreckers of the World Trade Center,
Yes, ancient Syria, hosts our Navy base, the Red Banner Fleet,
Our Air Force there too, our mighty MiGs and swift Sukhois,
So –” thin-haired Putin looked up from his cards – “You will
Stay out of Syria, no more cruise missiles or SEALs or bombs.”
He looked back down again, and the Trump shot back, “Er…what?”
Putin returned to his cards, “Next agenda item –”
But the brave Trump, O valorous man! Had the temerity to interrupt!
“But Vladimir,” he objected, “they used chemical weapons…”
In response, Putin stared at him with Arctic-frozen eyes for many seconds.
Then reached into a briefcase, removed a VHS tape,
Placed it on the table; and again, bore his heartless eyes
Into the tiny soul of the timorous Trump, searching everywhere
For a hole to crawl into.
Putin continued with the next index card, “Ah, yes, Iran,
Land of the mullahs. You pulled out of a deal there?”
“Yes,” replied the Trump, happy to be discussing something he knew about,
“Terrible deal, disaster, Obama’s fault, the worst deal in history!”
The Trump, he knew how to sum things up!
Putin with his cold eyes
Just stared again; then shrugged: “I don’t care. You do understand,
Do you not, that no treaty, they’re building atom-breaking bombs?
Even as we speak?”
“Really?” the Trump responded, stunned;
“How could they? Why….oh….”
“No matter,” Putin said coolly,
“If they ayatollahs are successful, if they indeed create
Such a terrible weapon, Russia will handle it, we will take care of Iran,
Russia, not America, will save the world, you stay home.
Next agenda item –“
“But—” again the Trump interjected,
“What of it?” Putin shot back. “Next agenda item –
Yes.” He put the cards down. “Economy. Our GDP rose
One point seven percent, inflation, zero point five,
Fixed capital investment, four point one percent,
Budget surplus, trade surplus, one hundred ninety million,”
How he rattled the numbers off from his prodigious memory!
“What’s yours?” he inquired. The Trump stammered, stuttered,
Didn’t know, but Putin did, “Your deficit is nine hundred billion!
You are running your country like your businesses!
Destabilizing markets, devaluing the dollar, bad for everyone, fix it!”
And so it went, oh, how the Lord of the Slavs hectored the Trump,
Lectured him, harangued him, backed him into corners,
Finally the gifted tactician finished, put his cards away.
“Any questions?” graciously he asked the Trump,
Who, shaken by the onslaught, could only manage a few words:
“We did not interfere,”
Replied Putin levelly.
“Good,” approved the Trump.
And with that the pair emerged from their cloister,
To flashing lights and yelled-out questions,
Each taking his place behind a podium, beautifully made,
Mahogany, “A very productive meeting,” the Trump started,
“Very productive!” He proclaimed, though still unnerved,
His face still without color. So pale was he that lovely Ivanka,
Sitting on mousey Jared’s lap back home in the West Wing
Worried for Daddy Dearest, who continued by praising Putin,
“Such a great leader, strong as the gods is the Russian!
We talked like men, discussed our differences, made requests,
Negotiated!” One of the Snitches, someone from CNN,
So low, asked about election interference, so inappropriate
At this great moment, noted that all of America’s spooks
Were in agreement. So scornfully did the Trump regard the
Reporter, “I raised the issue with Russia’s great captain,
The submariner’s son, I did not shrink from him,
The glorious Lord of all the Russias, and he assured me,
Nay, swore to me, he’d done nothing of the sort!”
But the three-letter spooks, pride of Langley, someone wanted to know,
“My steadfast comrade here, gave me his solemn word,
So I must believe him, and not those swampy spies
With their own agendas.” At this Bolton and even fat Mike
Recoiled, but the Man of Manhattan went on,
Oblivious to the damage he’d caused,
“This man has brought joy to my heart, yes,
We are two great men, yes!” All eyes then turned to
Putin, the pride of Saint Petersburg, and on his thin lips,
The tiniest hint of a smirk,
“Yes, very productive,”
Nor had la frontera del sur escaped the notice of the Orange One