47th President Poem: ALPHABET SOUP, by Rochelle Newman

Bump the Trump.
You’re the chump.
(Or is it chimp?) for Trump.

Not just a few or a bunch but a large clump for Trump
All sticking together,
Yet highly untethered.

Why not just dump Trump?
He’s a frump
that Trump
with a hanging tie
like a hanging chad
rigged.

A grump, that Trump.
Not a Forest Gump,
That Trump.

He’ll always hump,
That Trump,
Women against the wall,
That Trump
‘cause when you’re a celebrity
they let you do it.
Even if you rue it.

Or maybe,
just jump over Trump.
He’s a plump lump, that Trump
Reptilian id and ego,
A close friend to Iago
Sitting under greased palms at Mar-a-lago.

Why not a case or two
Of mumps for Trump?
Courtesy of RFK.

He’ll pump his fist, that Trump.
Smack you in the rump

Searching with his itsy-bitsy stump,
That Trump,
while you’re searching for something
sump-pump up.

So,
Why not
nail him, derail him, impale him,
wack and wump him,
that Trump.
Or what’s a heaven for?

THE END
ROCHELLE NEWMAN