Farewell the neighing steed and the shrill trump,
The spirit-stirring drum, th’ ear-piercing fife,
The royal banner, and all quality,
Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war!
My mother respected and loved the queen. She loved the ceremony
and the pomp. Pomp and circumstance.
We have to talk. It’s time. Just you and I.
Supposing we raise funds by crowdsource
to buy NBC or Fox for you? No strings?
All Trump And What Trump Likes—All Day!
All night. All week. All month. Year after year.
If necessary, run commercials on your shows
that offer viewers prizes to keep ratings up.
All gold. The whole thing gilt or solid gold.
To save the Commonwealth, the Queen’s agreed
to host a slot at 9AM, New York time—
Pomp and Circumstance—the day’s
top wars and coronations, all with accents,
all with huge, high, chin-strapped beaver hats?
What else? The Neo-Conan Challenge—
Arnold Schwarzenegger back in chains?
In every episode, a clever schoolboy thinks up
ways to freak him out—bugs, girlie men.
The capstone—Presidential Timber—
ten contestants vie to win the audience’s vote?
And All the News That Isn’t Fake—
its journalists and talk show hosts
exclusively harassers and their victims,
the reportage interspersed with re-enactments
of the actual finaglement and sexual success?
You get to keep your staff and hangers-on.
Plum jobs for Bannon, Priebus, Conway, Spicer.
All your kids. Their spouses. Their kids too.
Plus naming rights—Trump this, Trump that—
to any institution of your choice
in every major city where you won the vote.
Trump Oklahoma City International.
Trump Mesa Arizona City Hall.
Virginia Beach Trump Lovers Olde Plantation.
What else? Ah, the Trump Wall Mall! Agreed.
A wonder of the world—your Presidential library
extending all 2000 miles, built right in—
a monument the likes of which
has not been seen in centuries,
and never will again—the one historians will dub
The Straw That Broke a Nation’s Back.
The south side, myriad artisanal cantinas
hawking mariachi-fueled tequila jags.
The north, coin-operated Jesus Will Forgive You
boutique sermon booths—all proceeds
split between your coffer and the NRA.
We’ll throw in three more wishes, to be named
at future dates. We only want you to be happy.
We adore you. Everyone adores you.
The United States is too ungrateful
to deserve you as their head of state—
a role so limiting, the list of shows
you’ve had no choice but to record
is straining the capacity of your gigantic DVR.
What say you, Donald? May I call you that?
Can we be friends? I bow? I kneel. You won.