By Benjamin Shapiro

Dear Donald, 

You had your chance,

For 70 years the same old dance

Solo soft shoe, dance for yourself,

A questionable display of mental health,

Policies in which you honor the few,

Funny, because honor is foreign to you. 

Perhaps time’s come to go away, 

Slither off into darkening day,

Because the most charitable act,

The only thing left at this point, in fact, 

Is to leave, to go, take one for the team,

To go and sleep, perchance to dream

Of legacy beyond hatred and fury,

Or stay and face that bitter jury

Of historians, philosophers, poets, and such,

The ones who will judge your Shit-Midas touch,

And you’ll call it fake news, 

In your room without views, 

While the world moves on

Having forgotten your song, 

But not the lessons you taught,

That hatred’s to be fought 

And that resistance will run

Over your team of one. 

So go, leave, I wish you no ill,

Go and sit on history’s landfill.


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