'Tis two weeks before Christmas and thru' the White House
Donald is “roaring”. He sounds like a mouse,
squeakily tweeting, “This is not fair!”
squeakily tweeting, “This is not fair!”
and blusters bravado: “THEY WOULDN'T DARE!”;
Melania snuggles alone in her bed
while Secret Service wish they could be elsewhere instead;
Little Trump thumbs poised, ready to tap,
Trump “giant” brain conjuring incredible crap,
when on the South Lawn a colossal clatter,
Donald drops his Big Mac to see what is the matter.
He flies to the window, altho' bathrobe clad
and hobbled by bone spurs, which hurt really bad.
What wailing of sirens! What flashing of lights!
Thru' the bullet-proof pane what a horrible sight.
There on the lawn, bullhorn in hand,
stands Robert Mueller. Just. As he planned.