There's a crazed shithouse rat on a gold plated throne
In a lily White House surrounded by fences,
And he tweets before dawn, on his greasy iPhone,
Praising only himself, and the frauds he dispenses.
But we get no reprieve, cuz this fat fool won't leave,
A quarter million dead, yet he won't let us grieve.
It's high time to chase Mister Shithouse off his stump,
Lock him up, and toss the key, because Fuck Donald Trump!
(musicians — feel free to get this rolling online. Sing it before ball games.)
