Should we care
that a man was held
upon re-entry
to Trump’s citadel?

A real American,
Muhammed Ali’s son,
stopped at the border
for his religion:

Detained for beliefs,
for his father’s choice,
once the loudest,
most American voice.

St Theresa sat
on Trump’s stiff knee,
to him she was
a limey Queen,
but in her head she’s
Thatcher’s clone:
‘This dame’s my idea
of a woman I’d bone!’
Perhaps the future’s
perfect couple,
they both agree
to cause less trouble.
Hand-in-hand,
off they go,
but he’ll dump her soon
in Guantanamo.

I want to wake
to an assassination
a bullet, a bomb,
death’s assignations:

Please kill the fucker,
before he kills us,
its a simple deal,
Trump is a runt.

Dad turned into a dog just before
the US-presidential election,
the world was changing so much
that anything, anything was possible,
like Dad becoming a cross-breed,
like Dad then shitting on our lawn,
(Dad never, ever, did that before).
He turned into a beautiful mongrel,
possibly part-Labrador, part-Poodle:
‘Stupid, with good looks,’ was all Mum said.
But what do we do about it?
I spent a few days hugging him,
trying not to catch his sad eyes.
What could I do? I am only sixteen.
Mum was rubbish, she told no one,
not even Gramps, who knows everything.
We were confused, in our own little world.
Perhaps the re-count would happen,
and prove that Russians fixed the election,
and Dad would become Dad again?
Not likely, according to the feeds I grazed upon:
Yes, I do RSS. I AM a child of the internet,
we don’t all just do Insta-snap.
I sat at the window, the grass grew high outside,
Dad’s peeing on it made no difference:
Mum got a cute lawn boy in,
who complained about Dad’s shits.
Try scooping them up each morning!
On the seventh day I bought a lead for Dad,
Mum was still in denial, so I took him out:
Opposite our house are the best woods ever,
once you have crossed the dangerous road,
the one Dad forever moaned about.
But now he strained at his lead,
desperate to cross, no matter what.
He responded well to my commands,
which I had looked up on Google.
He ran off, like a furious sprinter:
Dad had never run anywhere before.
I watched him spin on the loose dry leaves,
chasing the wind-blown ones,
and then he disappeared, forever.

Protectionism is the Trump card,
and with his Ace the West will shut,
reduced trade and less bartering,
see the embers of boom then lost.

Our bank rates will rise tomorrow,
as our true values take a dive,
the right will scream for purity,
as the beaten left, again, divides.

Shadows from the last century
are returning on the scans,
science has since developed,
but lies are fact for businessmen.

Trump hid from early battles,
draft dodged it is said,
perhaps now he’ll take a bullet,
to become a short-lived President.

Typesetters once did it
with wooden blocks,
but they used the wrong text,
now this confusion results:

They set out the erred-words:
‘Special Relationship’,
but should have laid out:
‘Small Useful Airstrip’:

Two countries separated
by a language neither speak,
and the marriage is damaged,
the special relationship creaks:

Trump puts us low,
dropped to ninth on the list,
when he ‘phones round the world,
to check who he can trust.

The Daily Mail will suck
on Donald’s presidential cock,
and Theresa May will kneel,
fumbling for his fat-dollar-knob.

Mr Trump
please press ‘DESTRUCT’,
when you’re elected
President;
it’ll be the best way
to ease our pain,
and you’ll be left alone,
with no one to blame.

Oh, F*ck, Oh F*ck,
Hillary’s ill!
Time to ‘OD’
on sleeping pills!

America, America,
Please do not crap
on this ‘free’ world,
it’s just a cat-nap:

Let her recover
in bed, and the polls,
then she’ll kick Trump
far-right in his balls.

Raise you, a Boris Johnson,
See you, a Donald Trump,
Two knaves on the table,
Both asses, orotund.