The sightings have been everywhere—
No matter where you go, he’s there.
Sometimes, you see his pouting face,
More often, sometimes every place,
You find you have no other choice:
Not only face, but whiny voice
That says “it’s heard” or “people say”
Assuring us he won’t betray
Our trust—that he knows better than
The common sense of common man
And waves his billions, yet still hides
His tax returns, his bona fides.
He’s there, you think, but then you spot
Another lie—and then he’s not
And all the while he will deny
The first, there is another lie
Which contradicts the first. It’s clear
We have an urban legend here—
Just like the menace with the hook,
He’s there—and we don’t want to look
And yet we do—there’s some delight
In when we tease ourselves with fright.
It’s seasonal, folklorists claim,
And soon will pass—the very same
That happened to the kidney thief
The backseat killer, and belief
In upstairs callers—who’ll remember
This little fright post-eight November?
Unless he wins—what will we do
If this one legend turns out true?