Seeing wisps of blonde and orange perfectly coiffed hair,
Parted to the right in an extreme comb-over
There he was sitting in thought in the Oval Office next to the fireplace, looking opulent
The gilded gold fixtures, the shiny extravagance, and him resplendent with his comb-over
And as he fell asleep thinking of the nation, a stray tiny ember caught the hem of his
Trousers and he went up like a Roman candle unbound
The orange makeup melting down his face, down his neck, and into his
Shirt collar and he raised himself of a sudden and was walking around
Like an inflamed zombie, like a Frankenstein on fire, awkward, stumbling, a TV whiz
Those reality shows, but now in self-immolation, hellbound
And the Secret Service ran in with fire extinguishers and blankets, chaos ensuing
Wrapping the president in blankets and spraying him with fire retardant
But how could this have happened, here in this Oval Office, and all that ungluing
Could Humpty Dumpty be patched up regardless of all his believers still ardent
Whoa to the nation! Whoa to the many! How so few with such few credentials
Could do so much damage in such little time
And there he lay in blanketed embers, like some dead witch from Oz with few prudentials
Would he recover his limited acumen amidst all his administration’s crime
Uncertain to be honest but the image of him inflamed in the Oval Office, hardly presidential
Emptily grabbing at the air, as the fire licked his bodily form, ending his authority in prime time
