Robert Cooperman- A Poem

President Trump at the Border—The Daily Patriot

He stands atop the hundred foot wall

he commanded into being with the labor

of immigrants he captured entering the country,

and with those hiding within our borders.

And as illegal hordes now attempt to breach

the one gate President Trump, in his genius,

ordered cut into the wall to act as a funnel,
our beloved President fires his pearl-handled

six guns—retrofitted to hold fifty bullet clips—

into the mob, sending them into screaming retreat.

“Die, you rapist-pusher-murderers!” he bellows,

to the cheers of fans who’ve paid top dollar

to sit in lounge chairs—replete with coolers

for sipping cans of Coors and Bud—atop the wall,

and the audience watching on Pay Per View.

After each charge is repelled, huge trapdoors

fly open in the desert dust,  and the dead

are steam rolled below to ovens,

until their next assault on our holy borders.

“Losers,” Our Glorious Trump sneers to an aide,  

as he jams the next clip into place and takes aim,

though hardly necessary: the hordes so thick,

all he has to do is shoot, and bodies fall

to the ground: seeped, squishy with blood.

Inspiring, to see a real, red-blooded American

President take direct, decisive action, to keep

our borders safe from invaders, some nursing

at their mothers’ dugs: urchins programmed

to kill citizens once awakened from sleeper-cell stasis.