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.