What is Trump hiding,
arms crossed on chest,
behind his desk,
when asked a question?
Is he deciding
the kind of lie
he wants to try?
Is it just indigestion
from Cokes and Big Macs,
his bedtime snacks?
(Is it, alas,
that he has to pass gas
and too shy to impart
The Art Of The Fart?)
Does he think he's hiding
his tiny hands?
His fans in the Klan?
His fans in the Klan?
Is it itchy sweat glands?
Is it, at this junction,
Is it, at this junction,
erectile dysfunction?
A fear of castration
in front of the nation?
Does he need to “make water”?
Is he feeling fraught or
is he distraught for
his favorite daughter?
Is he — dare I ask it? —
contemplating his casket?
How does immorality
confront mortality?
How does immorality
confront mortality?