A wasted figure, dim with age
Put down the flimsy Spanish page
“Good news, I can, I think, determine
From this poor rag—if only German
Were planetary as it should be—
And then, of course, as well, I would be
Making news once more, instead
Of having to pretend I’m dead.
But what I read from this and get
Upon the worldwide internet
Is that the “home of brave and free”
Will soon have leaders just like me,
Who understand race should be pure
And know that you can trick the poor
With promises you’ll never keep
Until you stand atop the heap
Of those who thought you’d never rise
And now you’re Fuehrer—big surprise!
Your face on coins and postage stamps!
I wonder where they’ll put the camps?”
He shuffled to his glowing screen.
“A second chance! Why this could mean
At last I can be more alive
Than I have been since ’45.
This Kind needs help—that’s clear to see—
With me, we’ll bring back ‘33
And, best of all, I’ll blow this dump!”
He slowly typed in, “Dear Herr Trump”.