“It worked,” said the intercom, “now give the slip

To those agents of Migra while your mothership

Disguises herself as some cumulus cloud

And drifts across airspace that’s never allowed

To jets for the transport of folk of their race

And won’t be to us folk from far outer space!”


Each one on the ground then left his polling station

Having helped to pollute the pure voice of the nation,

Diluting the vote which would now never jump

To its true count:   one hundred percent for d trump

And it’s only the work of these dastardly scaly ones,

The two million plus of those illegal aliens


Who landed and cheated and then were all gone

To steal jobs, push drugs, rape, and call themselves Juan,

And work in the store rooms and hose down the carts

And carry out trash for a thousand Walmarts,

(Making each decent white man desire something purer

Like an Aryan nation with trump as the Fuehrer).


“And the beauty part is,” then the intercom said,

“is that he can doing nothing about us—instead

He will go on, as he did throughout the whole fall,

With his ludicrous promise about the Great Wall,

When the truth is as plain as the scowl on his face:

There’s no way you build a Great Wall across space!”


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