Monday, August 3, 2015

The Classy Poems Of Donald Trump - "My Hair"


Hey, this is me, Donald Trump. I took over this jagoff's blog to showcase my artistic and very unique poetry. He's lucky to have me do this for him. I'm working on a collection called The Classy Poems Of Donald Trump, and it's going to be a blockbuster. Top-notch, quality poetry! Not like that crud you're used to reading. If my poems were paintings, they'd be those oil paintings by famous Dutch guys, and you'd pay a lot just to see them, okay? I don't do anything halfway.

Here's the first:

My Hair 
by Donald Trump

They make fun of my hair.
They make fun of my hair.
On the street. On dates.
At dinners - a thousand dollars a plate,
And still they do it.
I know you think I'm a total winner, but it hurts!
The way they always make fun of my hair.

They call it a fox, a beaver,
A coyote.
They call it a panda - not the one you're thinking of,
But the weird kind.
When I go to bed,
I imagine it's a beautiful creature
From the myths of the Greeks - not the Greeks today,
But a long time ago, when they had their act together...
In the dark, in the night,
My hair gently rises from the 24-karat wig stand,
Flies through the window,
Gallops across fields,
Leaps over streams.
It's free. It's magnificent.
I say to my hair, I like you. You take charge, like me.
I still have to shoot you,
But you won't sit on my wall, big guy.
No. You're going right here, up top on Mt. Donald,
So you can go where I go, see what I see, and date the broads I date.
My hair paws at the earth and snorts. It agrees.
I take its life, its spirit,
And I waste nothing - just like the Native Americans, I use every bit of it.
We go together. We will not be ashamed.

Pretty freakin' good, huh? That Robert Frost is a punk.
(Photo by Michael Vadon. Rights information here.)

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