Syndic No. 19 Cover
Syndic Literary Journal

Resistance Poetry By Bob Cooperman – Chapter 2

Dictator Donald Trump / Portrait by Allen Forrest

 

 

Resistance Poetry – Chapter 2

 

by Bob Cooperman

 

 

Trump & Eleven-Year-Old Boy Who Mowed White House Lawn

What a fantastic kid: what’s best

about our greatest country on earth:

mowing my lawn; of course,

I’ll bargain him down to half, pay him

a quarter once every blade of grass

has been bagged and dumped

in someone else’s bin, maybe McConnell’s

or Ryan’s: that pair of whining losers.

 

But look at the kid pushing his mower,

even grittier than the Mexicans

at my fabulous Mar y Lago;

a handsome, industrious white kid

not afraid of a little hard work:

an example to these Dreamer-parasites:

drug dealers, pimps, rapists, and hookers

who think they’re owed a free ride;

murderers who believe being here

gives them the right to kill anyone

they please: their idea of democracy.   

 

Sad.

 

Hey kid, what did you say your name is?

Oh yeah, Frank.  You’re a good kid, Frank,

almost as good as my youngest, Barron,

who’ll grow up to surpass you: us Trumps

born to rule the world; but keep trying, kid.

You’ll be successful in a modest way. 

 

Here’s some pocket change for your labor;

don’t spend it all in one place.

 

Trump and the Veterans

I love the Veterans, love ‘em, love ‘em!

Any time one of those guys needs to golf

at my resorts, he goes to the front of the line.

If he’s crippled, he can use his motorized

chair to zip around the course, have a blast,

wind on his face, in his hair, whatever.

 

The Vets?  Outstanding individuals,

all of ‘em, except the ones going along

with those gutter gossip mongers

who claimed I never donated a penny

‘til I got guilted into forking over the checks

I’d been saving up, to make the maximum splash.

 

Hey, no one feels for the Vets more than me:

for them it was Vietnam, Iraq, Afghanistan;

for me, the threat of HIV:  You don’t know

what scared is ‘til you’re waiting for the quack

to say, “Dead” or “Alive.”  That’s a VC jungle,

an ISIS desert, by another name.

 

Trump’s Golden Airplane

You heard me,

I want it gold plated,

stem to stern,

or whatever you call it

when it comes to airplanes.

 

Don’t make me fire you,

you know I’m really good at that.

And the president’s always right. 

Right?  Just like the Pope.

 

Strengthen the wings,

add more powerful engines.

Whatever.  But I want this baby

to look more fabulous

than a hundred suns

when losers look up

and think a god’s inside,

 

because I am a god, even

to the traitor-Hillary lovers,

who hate my guts, but cringe

because they know

I can have them all locked up,

deported, or shot on sight.

 

A little layer of gold

shouldn’t be so hard

for guys who claim

to be the best engineers

in the world.

 

So prove it!

 

The Candidate’s Hand Shake

The wife and me were big fans,

believed he was the only hero standing

between us and Islamic murderers

and the illegals stealing our jobs

and raping our daughters and my wife,

hotter than the waffles she’ll treat me to

on lazy, love-syrupy Sundays mornings.

 

So when he waded through the crowd

after his speech that stirred us

like Lincoln’s “Gettysburg Address”

was nothing but Kumbayah crap,

we had to shake his hand, just had to!

 

When he got a gander at Krystal,

like every other normal man in the world,

he stared like he’d fall into her eyes,

or maybe a little lower down,

the quick look he shot me, shouting,

 

“What’s a hottie like her doing

with a bald Neanderthal like you?”

He couldn’t let go, like she had football

stick-um smeared on her fingers,

till I thought he’d plant a wet one on her lips

and try to cop a feel: women coming out

of the woodwork accusing he can’t keep

Peter Pecker in his pants.

 

When his people pried them loose,

I was ready to vote for his opponent,

especially when Krystal kept gushing

on the car ride home he was a gentleman,

like I hadn’t noticed she’d palmed

his business card like a cheating ace. 

 

           

 

 

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