Donald Trump has been taking a lot heat lately. People have said many mean things like, “Donald, you’re not qualified to be president,” “Donald, you aren’t even a Republican,” “Donald, you are a racist, fascist, sexist crook in a gilded toupée,” and, most commonly, “Donald, you are a soulless shadow man who will singlehandedly doom America to an endless spiral of despondency and unspeakable humiliation.” Sometimes we forget about sweet blonde Don’s gentle, poetic side. He is a man of words; he knows all of the best ones. Here, we take a glimpse into Donald’s bard-like nature with a sonnet inspired by William Shakespeare’s “Sonnet 18” (which doesn’t have as many words as Donald’s).
On poetry, Mr. Trump has only this to say:
“Shakespeare is really just a hack, he’s a loser, people. If I could time travel, I’d go back to England, I’d become king (women can’t resist, Queen Elizabeth’s no exception) and win all of the poem contests. I once wrote a great haiku. It goes like this:
‘Tiny children are not horses.
One vaccine at a time.
I am the greatest poet this country’s ever seen. Look it up.”
“Sonnet Number One Because I am Number One” – Donald Trump
Shall I compare thee, Donald, to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely than Rosie…Disgusting
More temperate than Hillary: your temperament wins awards,
All of them.
Rough winds do shake your sexy corn silk hair,
Which is not a wig,
Your hair is as much a wig
As global warming is NOT a hoax concocted by those communist Chinese,
Summer’s lease has run out too soon,
Because God doesn’t know how to run a real estate business,
Our planet is freezing, our scientists are stuck in ice,
And they try to tell you about “Global” “warming,”
I have one word for you: bullshit hoax.
But don’t let my intelligence intimidate you,
My IQ is one of the highest,
It’s not your fault that you’re not me
And though beauty always fades,
All women, even the 10s, get old,
But not me,
Not beautiful Donald T,
Not my long, beautiful hands,
Are they small?
No, their size is well documented.
And don’t get me started on my hair,
Yellow as eternal summer,
Golden as my toilet bowl.
But I’m more than just a pretty face,
I don’t pay my taxes,
That makes me smart.
I have inner beauty too,
Heaps of it,
It’s called money,
That is to say, I’m very rich.
The losers don’t get it – they’re so mean,
They don’t understand how
I could even stand
In the Middle of Fifth Avenue
And I wouldn’t lose a vote,
Because I’m so temperate,
And I get along with poor people so well,
Probably because I was once poor.
Just a boy,
Abandoned by a cruel, miserly father,
Without possession, without hope,
Nothing but $1 million in my pocket,
Just look at me now:
I know words, I have the best words,
I’m the worst thing that’s ever happened to ISIS,
I cherish the weaker sex: bimbos, slobs – I don’t discriminate,
Speaking of that,
I have a great relationship with the blacks,
But above all, I’m a gentleman.
Commies are red, waterboarding is blue,
America, if you vote for me,
I’ll make Mexico build a wall for you.