Mr. Trump eats your soul in small bites.
— James Comey, New York Times, May 1, 2019
The cabinet sits around the long table,
Each person distinguished in his or her own eyes.
Lunch is served, soufflé de retribution.
Dig in, everyone, the bloated man says.
There’s more where this came from, trust me on that.
They eat. They smile. Then they eat some more.
Now let’s go round the room to sing my praise.
They praise him as if no one else is good.
He’s the one. He’s wonderful, they shout!
Great, we can all agree on this, he said.
Am I licking inflation, knocking prices down?
Everything’s more affordable for sure. True?
Of course, Do you like to see people hurt?
We only hurt the worst of the worst. Agreed?
But it’s hard to tell them from the rest.
Thus, they’re all terrorists, just look at them.
Their skin gives them away. It’s never white.
Pop quiz: Are hungry children good or bad?
Yeah, your momma probably had it wrong
Or your church, woke bunch of trans ministers!
So, we’re done here. Everyone back to work.
We’ve got a government to dismantle
And relationships with friends and allies
We need to stretch like taffy until they snap.
And then there’s all this stuff about the law.
The cabinet, however, froze like petrified wood.
Hissing filled the room. Was a tire going flat?
The group jerked up then fell like discarded clothes.
Damn, it happened again, said the face of orange.
He motioned, get these losers out of here.
Then he burped and patted his rotund paunch,
Barking out, chef, what best complements souls served cold?