With that, the Trump, weary from winning, took his leave,
Departing not to his storied bedroom, home of so many conquests,
Blonde after blonde succumbing to his irresistible charm,
And money; no, instead he wheeled around to the penthouse library,
Lined in mahogany, inlaid with the pure gold, sparkling in the night.
One book and one alone filled the shelves, The Art of the Deal,
Thousands of copies, arrayed in formidable formation,
Like fierce warriors of a Roman legion; each one, signed
By the Trump himself, tho’ after a few his tiny-fingered hand tired,
So he’d acquired a stamp of rubber, skillfully inscribed
By the dwarfish craftsman Norli of Midgard himself,
With the Trump’s own manly signature, the “D’s” and the “T’s” soaring
Like the spires of a Gothic cathedral! And no one could tell the difference
So perfect the reproduction, at least,
That’s what people said.
In the back of the room in a hidden niche under a dim light,
On a Persian carpet the Trump knelt before a figure carved of ivory
And began to quietly sob, salt tears oozing from his blood-speckled eyeballs.
“O Roycohn, Roycohn, my master, my mentor, beloved teacher
Godfather, what have I done? What have I done?
O Prince of Payback, Viscount of Vengeance, guide me now,
Never did I expect to have to take on this terrible mantle,
To deal with Congress, to answer to Scottpelley and the rest
To be accountable for my actions, for four long years!
How, o how, with every move watched, will I satisfy my needs,
For well-curved blondes and occasionally others?”
And before the Trump the spirit of the Lord of Evil appeared,
A shade, not quite real nor unreal, in a well-pressed gray suit,
Fedora on his high forehead, and awed was the Trump.
In a reedy voice he did speak to the Trump, these very words,
“But twenty-four years of age was I, a raw youth,
When I put my merciless talents to the test, and
Those nuclear spies, Julius and Ethel, they did feel my wrath,
Guilty I made them, and sent to the next world, electrified
By my legal hand! Deserving were they? What matter?
Great and terrible and – glorious – acts were taken, by my hand!”
“Yes, glorious!” the Trump cried his wholehearted acclaim.
Nor had the Dark One yet completed his tale:
“Two years later, in the halls of the American House,
Behind Tail Gunner Joe, McCarthy by name, yes!
With my hand I condemned hundreds of seditious Reds,
Commies in the Army! Commies in star-studded Hollywood!
Guilty? No? What matter? With my hand history bent
Then Ike himself, hero of Normandy, nemesis of Nazis,
When I asked him – demanded – no men who love men in the armed forces
He listened! And yes, Donald, I hated myself, loathed my ambition,
For I am of that man-loving tribe as well! Donald –”
And the spirit leaned forward, touched his presidential charge,
“I know you. Never good enough, never enough for your father,
Mustachioed Fred, builder of Bensonhurst.”
“So true, so true!” the Trump choked on his words.
“And now I say to you, Donald, newly elected leader,
Destroy your father’s disdain with your acts, with your will!
Any who oppose you, any! – place them in your hands
And crush them! O Right! O Wrong! Such antique concepts,
Now the iron Will of you, the Trump, the One, subsumes all!
How I envy you, Donald John Trump, you are history
At this the Trump brightened, stood, wiped his tears
Sashayed to his bedroom (not Melania’s of course, she had her own,
Better that way, any number of reasons, most of them female).
Soothed, feeling comforted, he closed his puffy eyes.
Then, drifting off to a well-deserved rest, for winning is hard work,
A dreadful sound awoke him! A creak on the floor, rustling of chains,
His eyes slowly opened, and standing before him, peering down
Another apparition, this one gaunt, frightful, its wool suit ragged!
“I think,” offered the groggy sleeper, “you have the wrong address.”
Inwardly praying the ghastly ghoul would depart. But no!
It spoke, in a thunderous voice, paralyzing the Trump with cold fear
“Nein! I haf the right address!”
“Then who? Who are you?”
Asked the Man of Manhattan, his voice all a-tremble.
“I am the Ghost of Trumpmas Past!”
Slowly the Trump rose
To a seated position, his Stearns and Foster groaning under the load
Thoughtfully the apprentice-master considered those words.
“Trumpmas, eh? I like it! Yes, we’ll have our own holiday,
I’ll buy Macy’s, we’ll have sales, maybe a parade, huge balloon
Of me, my masculine form, it’ll be tremendous, my orange ‘do afloat
I’ll make a killing!”
“Quiet!” the specter’s awful voice resounded,
And the mouth of the Trump snapped shut. “Tonight, on this night,
You, oh Donald, Lord of all the Donalds, your past will witness
Come with me, take my hand, and see that which came before!”
“Take your hand?” the Trump asked, a bit quizzically,
“Isn’t that … a little … strange?”
“Shut up!” the ghost replied,
“It’s how this all works, I don’t much like it either.”
And the apparition stretched out a bony hand,
Long fingernails extending past their digits, mottled skin drooping
The Trump, repulsed, hesitated, but the apparition would not be denied!
And off they flew, through space, through time, to Castle Garden,
Great sandstone edifice in Battery Park, not far from Fifth Avenue
Before the Trump not today’s museum but yesterday’s bustling hub,
Where smoke-belching steamships docked, and the ghost pointed:
“See that one? The Eider, just arrived from Hanseatic Bremen!”
The Trump and his guide settled near a line of ill-dressed folk disembarking
Foreigners, immigrants, the Trump could hardly hide his distaste;
“What is this, oh spirit?” tremulously asked the corpulent Potus-to-be.
“Why have you brought me here?” “Shut up and watch,”
The peremptory poltergeist responded. Behind a young boy,
Sixteen, perhaps, they followed, and as he signed his name
In the register-book the eyes of the Trump widened, for the name was
Friedrich Trump. “Grandfather,” breathed the Orange One. “Yes, ‘tis I,
A mere youth, alone and undaunted I traveled the wine-dark sea,”
Replied the ghost, “never forget, descended from immigrants you are,
But what an immigrant I was! Come!”
Again they arose,
To the lower east side, a striped pole before a door,
And there they viewed a sight, young Friedrich clipping hair.
“The value of hair, young Donald, never underestimate!”
“Oh, I don’t, I don’t!” cried the president-elect.
“Hours each morning, carefully tending, pruning so delicately,
I have stylists, the very best ones, very excellent –”
Shouted the ghost, as only a loving grand-pere can
“A temp job! We were not made to coif the locks of others!”
And again the Trump was lifted into the cool night air,
This time across the continent, without wings, like clouds,
They flew, to the city of emerald, verdant Seattle,
Glory of Puget Sound, Washington Street number Two Oh Eight,
Two modest storeys of brick, haunt of hungry sailors and politicians
In search of food, and other relief.
Friedrich proudly pointed, “See the sign!”
And his mortal charge took note, “F. Trump, Proprietor.”
“Potato soup! Fresh beans! And cheap liquor!
Watered-down, of course, can’t waste it on these sorts,
Yet I suck the hard-earned coins right from their pockets!
And look up!”
The Trump cast his eyes to the wrought iron balcony
Where three sad women checked out the customers below.
“The best girls in the city, clean, very clean, very tremendous,
“Oh my Grandfather, never ever have I been as proud
To be a Trump as on this very night! Money and whores!
Whores and money!”
“Shut up!” again the phantom quieted
His enthusiastic descendant. To the air again they departed,
North, ever north, past the border, into evergreen Canada,
Where long lines of men, hard men, picks and shovels in hand
Through the snowy Rocky Mountain passes they clambered.
“Gold, Donald, gold! From everywhere they rush here,
The unspoiled Yukon, to find their treasure!”
“I love gold!” shouted the Trump. “Everything I own!
My toilet, my bedroom, my Seven Fifty Seven!
And did you, honored ancient ancestor, here find your fortune?
Cash in on the mother lode of the king of metals?”
Friedrich Trump responded to the Trump in these words,
“Idiot! Of course not! Now listen to me!
Panning in the cold-flowing river is a fool’s errand!
But selling them the pans! And whiskey! And, of course
Women! Oh, I know how to make a buck, anywhere!”
And the pride swelled in the Trump’s polysaturated chest.
“Now I shall impart to you a great secret, get out
While the going’s good, one day the gold exhausts;
Cash out before!”
“Your words hit home, how I wish I’d known,”
Groaned the Trump, “Three casinos in one year, who knew they’d croak,
Turn their bellies up?”
“You should have!”
The aged grossvater slapped the son of Fred right in the face,
Reddening just for a moment, its orange sheen fading
“Who loses money on a gambling casino? You?
Then: aloft again, back across the great land
Now to Queens, to Park Lane, lined with trees,
To a bedroom, dimly lit by a single lamp,
Where lay a sickly man, his throaty phlegm-filled coughs
Weakening. Attending him his sad wife, and a teenaged boy
Who seemed to see the Trump! And glared harshly,
Hatefully, unforgiving, untrusting, belittling, directly
At the Man of Manhattan, who pulled on the ghost’s arm:
“That child – is that? Yes! Oh Papa, my Papa! How I long to please you!”
But young Fred kept his silence, regarding the Trump with scorn.
“Here,” the spirit continued, ignoring the child and speaking in soft words,
“Here is where I met my end, Donald.”
“No, you cannot die, grandfather, I hardly know you,
See how young you are, hardly a hair of gray
It cannot be your time!”
But Friedrich just sighed,
Put his gnarly hand on the trembling shoulder of the Trump;
The old patriarch spoke these words of loving advice,
“Unworthy, self-obsessed grandson, listen to me! A great disease
Straddling the globe, a fearsome unseen flu felled me.”
Before the frightful phantasm the Trump shrank
“One day, a great pestilence will visit you. Be ready!”
And with that the Trump awoke in his own bed,
To see his grandfather, progenitor of the great Trump,
Fading into oblivion. “Be ready!”
“Huh,” the Trump rolled over, paying the dream no heed.
“Whatever,” he did mutter, and back to sweet sleep he went.
But as the waters of a great storm lash the stubborn shore
Receding for an instant, only to return with greater force,
So on that epic evening the dreams of the Trump returned.
Before his closed eyes appeared something gigantic; black; steaming; frothing
A cauldron! What sort of infernal mix could it be? Wondered the Trump.
Then his ears perked up, shrill voices he heard, women’s
Double, triple, alimony pay
You write check, more I say!
And cackling laughter! How the Trump was filled with fear!
Cold chills raced up and down his spine!
And then, gasping, he made out one of the terrible hags,
“Ivana!” he wanted to shout, but his voice failed him!
Listened to her chant, couldn’t close his ears!
Tongue of lawyer for divorce
Into the pot will I force
O shredded dreaded prenup,
May all your firms go belly up!
Around the accursed cauldron the several did dance, repeating
In unison, in tune, in Dionysian fury,
Double, triple, alimony pay
You write check, more I say!
Next in terpsichorean glee stepped lovely Marla,
Pride and Peach of Georgia, the homecoming Queen,
What would she say, shuddered the Trump, as she held
A lovely mother-of-pearl platter, a rich cornucopia of
Thick fruit of the earth, erect, proud bearers of Nature’s seed!
Taunting her terrified ex, she held up a brazen cleaver,
Wrought from rare Norelco steel, so very, very sharp
Not her sweet smile but a cruel, toothy grin absent any mercy
Pasted on her face, as she grasped a rigid vegetable,
Thrust it down, then, squealing in vengeful delight,
Hacked it in two with her a mighty clang!
Chop the carrot, cut it off!
Grind the cucumber, make it soft
Shred the zucchini, grate it down
Lo, hateful mushroom! Lose its crown!
The lyrics, so awful! So frightful! Nor did the witches cease:
O race of man, you filthy wreck
Guided by the other head, below the neck
Double, triple, alimony pay
You write check, more I say!
And from the gloom more emerged, all of them, every one
Not just Ivana and Marla, but Stormy and Karen,
Jill and Jean, Alva, Summer, Jessica, Kristin, and Lisa
Mindy, Jennifer, Rachel and Natasha and Juliet
Harpies by the hundreds! So many! Their names escaped him,
Models and Playmates, actresses and beauty queens
Breathlessly, feverishly, madly chanting!
Into the pot, it’s you we’ll dump
Yes you, it’s you, Donald J Trump!
Your lecherous body o how it’ll boil
Soaked in this foul bubbling oil!
With that the Trump awoke! Started from his bed! Covered in cold sweat!
“What have I done, what have I done?” all he could say!