(With apologies to Sylvia Plath for abusing her great poem “Daddy”)
You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which we have lived like a foot
For eighteen months, rich and poor,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.
Donny, we have had to beat you.
You lost before we had time——
Marble-heavy, a bag full of gas,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Trump Tower logo.
And a head in freakish Atlantic City
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off beautiful New Jersey.
We used to pray to make money from you.
In New York City, in Coney Island
Scraped flat by the roller
Of build, build, build
But the name of your tower is common.
My Manhattan friend
Says there are a dozen or two.
So we never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
We never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in our jaws.
It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
We could hardly speak.
We thought every landlord was you.
And your language obscene
Chasing after us like a woman.
A woman to fondle, grab, force.
We began to talk like your victims.
We think we may well be your victims.
The beach of Mar-A-Lago, the odds at the casino
Are not very pure or true.
With your grasping nature and our weird luck
And our electoral system and our electoral system
We may be a bit of your victim.
We have always been scared of you,
With your orange skin, your goobly hair.
Should have a neat mustache
With your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man wannabe, O You——
Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Not every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.
You stand at the podium, Donny,
In the picture we have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the evil man who
Bit our pretty country in two.
But the fools voted for you.
Last spring, we voted, too
To get back, back, back at you.
We thought even the votes would do.
But they pulled you out at Philly,
And they stuck you together with glue.
And then We knew what to do.
We made an opponent for you,
You red-tie man with a Meinkampf look
And a love of the rack and the screw.
We don’t say I do, I do.
So Donny, We’re finally through.
The red telephone’s not going to you,
The voices just can’t worm through.
If we’ve beaten one man, we’ve beaten two——
The party who came to back you
And drank our blood the past year,
Many years, if you want to know.
Donny, you can lie back now.
There’s a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Donny, Donny, you bastard, We’re through.