A Thanksgiving Story

’Twas the night of Thanksgiving, when in the White House
Prince Trumperdinck was tweeting, ignoring his spouse;
“I hate fake news, Hannity’s my only comrade,
But CNN and the New York Times are just SAD!”

Eric and Junior were all snug in their beds,
While visions of indictments danced in their heads;
Trump rose from the toilet and put down the phone,
Then flushed a big poopie down his golden throne.

When out on the lawn came a sound like a canon,
He knew in a moment it must be Steve Bannon.
Away to the window he waddled with care,
Only to find his pal Bannon not there.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave the lustre of White Purity to objects below,
When, what to his old racist eyes should appear,
But a miniature Nazi: David Duke with a beer.

With a little old bigot, so hateful and white,
Trump’s heart skipped a beat; he loved the alt-right.
More rapid than eagles his minions they came,
And he whistled and shouted, and called them by name:

To the top of the country! To the top of my wall!
Now tax away! Tax away! Tax away all!”

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
You know what? Screw Puerto Rico. Those darkies can die!
So up to the White House, his minions they flew,
And guess who was there? Papadopoulos, too!

“I don’t know that guy,” Trump said with a smirk,
“Don’t talk to Mueller! That dude’s a jerk.”
He welcomed them all, his friends on the Right,
Then went to the kitchen, “Let’s have a quick bite!”

He called to the turkey he’d pardoned that morning,
Then reminded the bird of his dire warning:
“I will save you today, then kill you tonight.
My friends need to eat. My friends that are white.”

The bird, how she trembled! Her terror, how merry!
Her blood was like roses, her heart like a cherry!
Trump raised her limp body and called out to his god,
Then yelled out to America, “KNEEL BEFORE ZOD!”

Trump cooked up that turkey, and ate it with glee,
Then wondered where in hell Melania could be.
He looked in the Oval Office, and checked the West Wing,
But his queen was still missing; she needed her king.

He called out to Ivanka, then Eric and Donny,
He forgot about Barron, but remembered Tomi.
“She’ll find Ivanka, I know that she can!”
Trump said to himself, before dialing the Klan.

But no one had seen her, not Fox or its Friends,
Not The Blaze or Sean Hannity, not Bannon or Pence.
“I guess she is lost,” Trump whined with a sigh,
Then picked up his phone to give Twitter a try.

“My wife is lost. Has she run away from these lands?
I never even hit her, not with these tiny hands.”
Then a notification went off; the reply was from Mueller,
“You’re gonna need an attorney, you fucking preschooler.”

© 2017, Kristian Bland. All rights reserved.