Resistance Poetry by Charles Rammelkamp
Dictator Donald Trump / Portrait by Allen Forrest
Resistance Poetry
by Charles Rammelkamp
A Good Guy
Wayne LaPierre? A good guy, a smart guy.
Like he said, and I repeated,
it takes a good guy with a gun
to stop a bad guy with a gun.
And me? I’m nothing
if not a good guy.
Just ask anyone. Ask Melania.
Better yet, ask Ivanka.
Ivanka! If I weren’t her father,
I’d be all over her
like Stormy Daniels or Karen McDougal,
though of course, only after
she’d signed the non-disclosure agreement.
Sometimes I get so jealous of Jared,
imagining what goes on
when the lights go out.
I send him on all these Top Secret assignments,
hoping maybe he’ll be killed, like Uriah,
Ivanka the Bathsheba to my King David.
But wait, what was I talking about?
Oh yeah, what a good guy I am.
I’d go into a school after a shooter
in a New York minute,
but that’s just the kind of guy I am:
A good guy. Probably the best.
She Should Be Grateful
Look, I’m the first to admit
I’m not perfect,
no matter what people are saying,
but even the evangelicals
give me a mulligan for cheating.
So maybe I haven’t been
completely faithful to Melania,
but if it weren’t for the damned leakers
and the fake news media,
nobody’d be the wiser.
It’s the leakers who’re the real criminals.
She should be grateful
I married her, rescued her
from that shithole Sevnica, Slovenia,
got citizenship for her immigrant parents,
Viktor just a guy managing
car and motorcycle dealerships
for a state-owned vehicle manufacturer.
A loser. Sad.
It’s not like I bragged to Melania
about how these girls were wound up
over the chance to have sex with me –
though who wouldn’t be excited
by a prospect like that?
Besides, we’re all adults, right?
Daydream Believer
I do not favor punishing children
for the actions of their parents,
but we are a nation of laws.
My heart bleeds, but my hands are tied.
Besides, Congress can pass legislation
to save the hides of these worthless brown-skinned kids, right?
We can count on Paul Ryan, Mitch McConnell,
those red-state legislators cowering
about the upcoming elections, right?
But it was a tough decision,
and I’m not a leader
to shy away from tough calls.
Just ask my pitbull Sarah Huckabee Sanders,
she’ll tell you how I wrestled with the issue,
agonized about it while I watched Fox News
to give me a hint how I should proceed.
Or ask Jeff Sessions. Mister Magoo’s the one
who really has it in for immigrants.
I’m just trying to be fair.
You could say that I’m a dreamer,
but I’m not the only one.
Imagine a beautiful border wall.
No Collusion!
Did I mention there was no collusion with the Russians?
I’ve been saying it since the beginning.
So what if we talked to them about adoptions?
So what if these conversations were so trivial,
most people just forgot they even happened?
But I could have kicked Sessions for “recusing” himself,
a fancy legal cover for not having any balls.
And Comey? All I asked him to do,
tell the American public I wasn’t being investigated –
was that so hard to do?
It’s nothing but a witch hunt
by the sore loser Democrats
just because the bull dyke lost the election.
Wha-wha! Cry me a river!
I know, Obama warned me about Mike Flynn,
but that was sour grapes on the Muslim’s part
since Mike led the chant at the convention
about his handpicked candidate. “Lock her up!”
Crooked Hillary’s the one they should be going after.
And they made me fire him for what?
Talking to the Russians about lifting the sanctions?
Give me a break! What’s wrong with that?
Of course, the ghoul, Pence, knew all along
but he agreed to say Mike lied to him
just to get me out of hot water.
Pence is a real team player.
But was Mike Flynn “colluding”?
Hell no! There was no collusion!
A Beautiful Little Girl
She’s making it all up!
A liberal stooge just trying to get attention.
“That’s a beautiful little girl.
A shame if something happened to her mom.”
Nobody in Mister Trump’s organization
would ever threaten a beautiful little girl
like that, or her daughter.
Heck, she signed a statement
saying she never had an affair with him.
She didn’t have to do that.
Nobody forced her; nobody put a gun to her head.
All this hogwash about feeling “afraid.”
Yeah, right!
They gave her $130,000, too,
just so she wouldn’t stir up any trouble.
She should be arrested for that alone!
It’s called blackmail.
Claims she’s taking a risk
half her fan base will boycott her shows,
since they’re all red-blooded Americans
who probably voted for the right guy.
That’s a laugh!
Wadongas like that, I’d go see her any time,
don’t matter who she voted for!
Spanky
“What’s so funny?” I bark,
Some twit outside the Roosevelt Room
snickers when I walk past her,
a liaison from the NSA
or a fucking staffer somewhere,
maybe the press office, probably a leaker.
“Nothing, sir,” she answers, stifling a titter,
then scurries off like a mouse,
skirt swaying, a cute little number,
and I feel powerful as the Wizard of Oz again,
my insecurities almost blindsiding me
for a minute there.
But then two others look away quick
when I enter the room,
as if caught shoplifting.
Another one sees me and about doubles over,
turning red as the flag pinned to my lapel.
Somewhere I hear the word nickname
float like a notepad flicked
down the long conference table,
and I relax; they must be in awe of my wit,
the clever names I give people.
Crooked Hillary, Pocahontas, Little Rocket Man.
Then this jerk runs out of the room
like one of those guys in the commercials
with “frequent urges to urinate,”
headed past the Oval as if about to wet himself.
“Spanky forty-five!” he’s howling,
and I see all the others concentrating on their cellphones
as if it’s Nine-Eleven all over again,
tears in their eyes,
trying hard not to break into laughter.
I seethe, remembering that bitch telling the world
how she swatted me on the butt with the magazine.