A Poem, by Donald Trump

Donald Trump at a party with two women

If you began your childhood on third base,
Like me, and never had to work to bring wealth in,
And watched the fools and suckers take your place,
While you stayed home and lived a life of sin,
My friend, you’d know you’re better than the rest,
Plebeians whose folks wait at home with worry
In wartime. While you go to all the fetes,
They fight, suffer, and pro patria mori.

4 thoughts on “A Poem, by Donald Trump”

  1. Antonio Fiorentino Di Stefano

    Did he really write this so called poem? There is little doubt that he is capable of it. But I think the concern of all thinking human beings anywhere in the world should be with a political system that allows this type of personality to be ushered into an office and the power to destroy life as we know it on planet Earth. Something went wrong that needs serious thinking and radical change.

  2. Heh! No, it’s a satire I wrote, based on a famous poem by Wilfred Owen, one of the great British poets of WWI, Dulce et Decorum est. Here is the last stanza of Owen’s poem, which is about his reaction to seeing someone fall victim to a poison gas attack:

    If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
    Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
    And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
    His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin,
    If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
    Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
    Bitter as the cud
    Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,–
    My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
    To children ardent for some desperate glory,
    The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
    Pro patria mori.

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