‘Twas the night before inaugural, and at the White House
the soon-to-be Ex-president was feeding fake news to a pack of reporters.
Though the hour was late and the votes all collected,
the Ex-president still claimed to win the election.
“Of course it was rigged,” he said in a tweet, “it’s the greatest fraud in the history of Man.”
While the new Administration lined up in the snow, waiting for the clock to wind down
the West Wing shone brightly of wreaths made in Maine
by non-union rascals who wouldn’t give us their names.
And Billy Barr armed with a fistful of pardons,
hawked his wares and sought out no one.
Then suddenly there arose from the Ex’s rally
a cry of hope, a stifled sob.
For there in the sky above the Potomac
came an old Huey chopper looking for an opponent.
When it got to the target a ladder was dropped for the
Ex to grab.
“Where’re my friends?” moaned the Ex
as he grabbed on to the ladder.
“You haven’t any,” whispered John Bolton.
“Everyone on the ladder,” shouted the Ex.
“Grab my feet,” Ex tweeted, “a trick I learned from the World Wrestling meets.”
The Loyalists came out, hands over ears, as the Ex called their names.
There was Spicer, DeVos, Junior and Eric; Mnunchin, Scalia and don’t forget Rudy.
“We’ll see you all in 2024,” said the Ex, as the chopper angled away. “Until then you’re still bad losers.”
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