Friday, May 27, 2016

He toots his own horn in triumph,
The Donald, the boss man, the Trump,
I’m told that in Britain,
And it’s oh so fittain,
His name’s gas expelled from the rump.

Yesterday was my birthday.  I've decided now that I've reached what's supposed to be a venerable age,  though I feel anything but, venerable, that is, I'm writing more poetry.

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