Once upon a time in a foreign land
There was a President with tiny hands.
All of his life he spent compensating;
Rebuttals for a world calculating
His worth by his low digit-ratio,
Instead of counting digits and zeros
In the bank accounts of which he’s so proud.
His reputed wealth, he would argue aloud,
Is a President’s personal yardstick,
(not rumours about the size of his prick).
But, like men since the beginning of time,
who’ve been robbed in the ‘yours vs mine’,
each day is a chance to extend himself.
To compete and to win is, in itself,
the most urgent of all his delusions.
Until life becomes sustained confusion,
phallic towers and a sycophant’s court;
of models married and oligarch’s bought
— to recreate reality as it should have been.
What’s the point of all this bling?
A millionaire’s son deserves more than this!
Reality bites when President’s piss.
Erik Kaisson, 2017