To the rooms he will drag his heels
in vacating, he bequeaths
his excruciating lack of taste.
To the gardens fertilised by a mulch
far less dank or acrid than his words
or deeds, the ghost of a treehouse –
a never-was earmarked for the chequebook
of some obsequious acolyte.
To the economy, pissed away
on cronyism and knee-jerk spaffing,
the balance sheet earmarked
For the ruination of the underprivileged,
he bequeaths a lack of remorse.
To the Covid dead and their mourners,
robbed of closure, robbed of justice,
a lack of shame. To the world stage
and in full view of the cameras,
a vulgar word daubed on the walls
of parliament and palace, ugly
in its colouration of piss and bile.
To his successor, he bequeaths
division and the normalisation of lies,
also a handful of mouldy volumes
assembled for snob value
that might one day form the basis
of the Donald Trump Memorial Bookshelf.
To foreigners, he bequeaths contempt;
to gays, contempt; to Muslims, contempt;
to women, contempt and the aftermath
of his leering priapism. To the electorate
he should have served, contempt.
To democracy, contempt. To legality,
contempt. To dignity, contempt.
To morality, contempt. To the truth,
a kicking-in down the back alley
of his grotesque and still-visible shadow.
