Is there a preacher, much bemus'd in beer,
A maudlin poetess or rhyming peer anywhere?
A jerk, forelorned his father's soul to cross,
Who pens a stanza, when he should egress?
Is there, who, lock'd from ink and paper, scrawls
With desp'rate sharpie round his bathroom walls?
All fly to Tweet, and in angry strain
HE tries to keep them mad or vain.
Donald, whose giddy son neglects the laws,
Imputes and damn'd my works for cause:
Poor Donald sees his frantic life go down,
And curseing wit, and poetry, he drowns,
In his arrogance, rhetorical sputum and shit
His next election will end with a hit.