Sing a song of TrumpPence,
A pocket full of lies.
Four and twenty blackmen
Baked in a pie.

When the pie was opened,
The birds began to stink;
Wasn't that a dainty dish,
To make those people extinct?

Donald was in his counting house,
Counting out his money;
The queen was in the parlour,
Eating speed and honey.

The gardener in the garden,
spreading the manure,
When down came a blackbird
pecking like a skewer

They sent for Donald's doctor,
who sewed him up again
He sewed him all so neatly,
the seam was never seen.