Donald Trump

The Hair That Would Not Yield

There once was a man with a style, Whose hair seemed to stretch half a mile. It swirled like a crown, Never quite settling down— A meteor caught in denial.

He spoke with tremendous delight, About things that were “perfect” and “right.” If a boast had a cousin, He’d surely have dozens— A family reunion each night.

His Twitter (when active) would blaze, In all-caps rhetorical haze. At dawn he’d proclaim Some new claim to fame— A sunrise of digital frays.

Yet whether you cheer or you groan, He stood in a league of his own. A character grand, Both praised and panned— A legend of microphones blown.