Robert Cooperman- A Poem

Trump and the Design for the Twenty Dollar Bill

Forget that hag Tubman,

I should be on the Twenty,

my hair Irish-setter flowing,

my look of supreme wisdom.

And forget you’ve got to be dead.  

No point to being President

if you can’t do what you want,

from being the face on the Twenty

that I’ll rename, “The Donald,”

to walking into any restaurant in the world,  

and getting comped for the banquet

I’ll order for me, my family, and staff.  

If corrupt cops can do it, why shouldn’t

the Leader of the Free World?  

And since the little people love me,

I’ll put my face on every bill.  

The ones on there now: dead losers.  

Who cares about Whiggy George

or Warts Abe?  Did either get

as many votes as I did?  Franklin,

Hamilton?  Name one thing

of importance they did.

Okay, Jefferson designed a few huts,

but compared to my amazing projects?

Please.  Just remember who’s President,

swiveling in my Oval Office chair,

scaring the crap out of my staff  

by punching in nuclear codes,

to keep from getting bored out of my tree.