“I could shoot somebody and I wouldn’t lose voters.”—Donald Trump
I picked out a jerk-nothing bogarting air
on Fifth Avenue, a bum in a polyester suit
shiny as a clown’s nose, took my time aiming
and then gently squeezed the trigger. He flew back,
like he’d been yanked off a vaudeville stage;
my fans stepped over him, and crowded
around me, begging for my autograph.
Then a cruiser pulled up, cops racing out,
crouching like lions about to spring,
guns drawn, until they saw it was me
and holstered their pieces and apologized
for mistaking me for one of the criminal element.
They ordered a few passersby—illegals,
from the looks of them—to haul away the body,
or be sent back to wherever they’d snuck in from.
Not true I want to deport them all: not the ones
working off the books for me; they save me a ton.
Meanwhile, the crowd had gotten so big
my bodyguards elbowed a path for me back
to my limo, through their cheers and laughter.
“A no-class slob,” one guy snorted,
“he deserved it.” “Yeah,” a second agreed,
“just wish I’d pulled the trigger; maybe
the Donald would’ve given me a job.”
I stopped my security guys and handed him
my Glock; he aimed at some lowlife pedestrian,
but couldn’t shoot: no need to tell the loser,
“You’re fired!” after I popped himto more cheers than I got even in New Hampshire.