Retired teacher Glen Brown has written his own poetic addendum to a book by Robert Sears called “The Beautiful Poetry of Donald Trump.”
I was not aware of Sears’ collection and organizing of Trumpian verbiage into blank verse. Searching for the poetry of Trump by Sears on Amazon, I discovered that he also wrote a book titled: “Vladimir Putin: Life Coach.”
Here are one of Glen Brown’s Trump poems:
“I’m One of the Smartest People in the World” by Donald J. Trump
“Look, having nuclear —
my uncle was a great professor
and scientist and engineer,
Dr. John Trump at MIT;
good genes, very good genes,
okay, very smart, the Wharton School of Finance,
very good, very smart —
you know, if you’re a conservative Republican,
if I were a liberal, if, like, okay,
if I ran as a liberal Democrat,
they would say I’m one of the smartest people
anywhere in the world —
it’s true! — but when you’re a conservative Republican
they try — oh, do they do a number —
that’s why I always start off:
Went to Wharton, was a good student,
went there, went there, did this, built a fortune —
you know I have to give my like credentials
all the time, because we’re a little disadvantaged —
but you look at the nuclear deal,
the thing that really bothers me —
it would have been so easy,
and it’s not as important as these lives are
nuclear is powerful; my uncle explained that to me
many, many years ago,
the power and that was 35 years ago;
he would explain the power
of what’s going to happen
and he was right —
who would have thought?
but when you look at what’s going on
with the four prisoners —
now it used to be three, now it’s four —
but when it was three and even now,
I would have said it’s all in the messenger;
fellas, and it is fellas because, you know,
they don’t, they haven’t figured that the women
are smarter right now than the men,
so, you know, it’s gonna take them
about another 150 years —
but the Persians are great negotiators,
the Iranians are great negotiators,
so, and they, they just killed, they just killed us.”
👍🏽👍🏽👍🏽
Thank you, Diane.
New found poetry. A cross between Shakespeare and ee cummings.
Trump apparently speaks in blank verse.
Yeah, Most inventive new mix: stream of conscience in the rhythm of moronic rantameter.
LOL.
Donald’s blank verse.
It couldn’t be worse.
Donald Trump: blank verse from a blank mind
Bob,
Your Trump anthology is astounding. You have turned stupidity into stupendous.
My armchair diagnosis of Donald’s pathology is that he suffers from extreme Putin envy.
Putin envy. LOL. Yes.
And thanks, Fred. Means a lot to me.
Moronic rantometer!!!! ROFLMAO! It’s a new metrical form!!!
By the way, Bob– I love the way Diane knows how to get us rolling, especially on a slow news day. It’s brilliantly amusing. She’s truly a Muse.
Diane is one of those makers of “good trouble”! Brilliant, witty, decent, compassionate, cultured, learned–an extraordinary person. A great hero of mine. What a model to us all!
Moronic rantameter!
Trump’s brainpan is empty, and anything that comes of that void arrives from a blank space.
moronic rantameter is the rhyme scheme I use.
Did you mean ee connings?
A journey into egomania and lunacy
3 and 3/4 years ago, our nation entered The Twilight Zone
Sears has a wicked sense of humor. I looked up the Putin book. The blurb says, “Filled with stories from Putin’s extraordinary time in power, and ideas and illustrations to help you emulate him on a small scale, Vladimir Putin: Life Coach is the ultimate guide to releasing the pseudo-elected, judo black-belt, 5D chess-playing autocrat inside each and every one of us.”
You know, I find myself re-reading Trump’s words. The dude is cutting edge, blurring the line between absurdity and abstraction. His thoughts defying interpretation and the conventions reason. And he makes it look effortless.
A stable genius!
Straight from the horse’s arse
Fred,
Would you describe his poetry as New Age or Futuristic?
New Rage. Futilistic.
Although 45 is certifiable, his poetry escapes classification. There have been artists and poets whose work has been a reflection of mental illness, yet their creativity was recognized. In Donald’s case, the madness dominates, leaving nothing to inspire.
The number of tweets he cranks out is impressive. Call it junk poetry. But I would say he is becoming more Old Age with each passing day.
Wonderful!
Donald Trump Sings the Tradition Irish Song, “The Parting Glass”
Oh, all the money I have made, came from Dad or some scam, you see.
And all the friends that ere I had were sycophants and paid by me.
So many I’ve harmed, for lack of wit, too many for my slow mind to recall.
So here I pass some parting gass: I feel no shame or guilt at all.
yikes! Traditional!
Me
by Donald Trump
(with apologies to Joyce Kilmer)
I think that I shall never see
A poem lovelier than me.
A Me whose roving hands are pressed
Against each woman’s thigh and breast;
A Me that thinks on Mammon all day
And lifts its flabby arms to pray;
A Me that even in winter wears
Orange skin and troll-blonde hair;
Upon whose bosom porn stars have lain;
Who lives to cause all others pain.
Poems are made by fools like thee,
But only real sickness can make a Me.
A great relief to see how poetry of a sort can be made from the odd musings of our Commander in Chief.
Donald Trump Sings “My Country, ‘Tis of Thee”
My country, screwed be thee,
Sweet land of Hannity, of Me I sing!
Land where caged children died,
Where I let Covid slide,
Land where I lied and lied, let Putin reign!
“Oh Donnie Boy,” or “Orange Is the New Slack” (to the tune of the oh-so-appropriate “If I Only Had a Brain”)
I just while away the hours
A-tweetin’ in my bower,
Consulting with TV.
I don’t care for cogitating,
I just sit here agitating
While I’m watching Hannity.
Think I’ll order some hamburders
And tweet out some diverters
From the latest breaking news
’bout the crimes I’ve perpetrated
And the folks I’ve terminated
For developing a clue.
Oh, I-I-I can’t tell you why
Burning fossil fuels warms the Earth,
I care only for increasing my net worth.
A man is measured . . . by his girth.
I would not be just a nothin’,
My head all full of stuffin’
And neediness and pain.
I wouldn’t be insane, erratic;
I might be quite democratic
If I only had a brain.
Rudolph the Brown-Nosed
(to the tune of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer”)
Rudolph the Ghouliani
had a very brown, brown nose,
squandered his former goodwill,
stroking Trump on TV shows.
All of the other Trumpties
used to laugh and call him names.
Even those abject toadies
thought him crooked and insane.
Then one Foggy Bottom eve,
Trumpty called to say,
“Rude one with your nose so brown,
won’t you take Joe Biden down?”
What happened then’s sheer folly:
thanks to lows the two men reached,
history will most remember that
Trumpty Dumpty was impeached.
The Six Wives of King Donald the Worst
Six wives, had he, the Eighth King Henry,
Trump had but three, we’re told, but when he
Was twixt and between those he made a great show of
Perhaps he swallowed some three we don’t know of.
From “Jesus and I,” by Bob Shepherd (for James Tate)
I was sleeping, but something woke me. It was Jesus. I walked through to the living room, and sure enough, he was up, sitting on our sofa in his boxers in the dark, smoking a Gauloise and laughing to himself. I said, “What’s so funny?”
He said, “I just sent Donald Trump a dream. He was a six-year-old from Honduras, and he had been walking for weeks through the desert with his mother, and he was thirsty and hungry and burned and bug-bitten, and his feet were throbbing, and she was crying, and he woke up screaming so loud you could hear it all the way to Melania’s room, though nothing surprises her anymore.”
“So how did you get the Gauloises?” I asked. “I thought they couldn’t sell those in the United States anymore.”
“I have connections,” he said.
“Why Gauloises?” I asked.
“My body is a temple,” he said.
Theodicy
Once we were shooting hoops at the Y and I asked him, “Jesus, since you have all these like, powers or whatever, why don’t you just fix everything? Cancer, hunger, cracked iPhone screens, Trump’s brain?”
He gave me this you-expect-me-to-do-everything-for-you look, but then he softened, because that’s how he is, and said, “Leibnitz wrote a book about this–on the problem of evil. . . . Funny.”
“What’s funny?” He had a weird sense of humor. I told him this, too. Often.
“Well, as you know,” he said, “Leibnitz co-discovered Calculus. But he totally missed, in his book, that souls are infinite and that any amount of suffering, divided by infinity, is effectively zero.”
“Over my head,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s a design flaw.”
Donald Trump Sings Bohemian Rhapsody, by the Late, Great Freddie Mercury
Is this the real life?
Is this just fantasy?
Caught in my web of lies,
There’s no escape from me.
Don’t open your eyes,
Don’t doubt my lies. Please see. . . .
Poor little rich boy, I’m just so needy.
Very dumb, very slow,
Little, next to nothing, know.
Everything I do blows. Nothing really matters
But me,
But me.
Mama, I dye my hair like yours.
And I comb it ‘cross my head,
Want approval though you’re dead.
Wanted you to say, “You’re the greatest, son,”
Though you are gone, that drives me to this day.
Mama, ooo, ooo, ooo, oo,
You and Daddy made me cry, so
I’m needy yesterday, today, tomorrow.
Carry on, carry on. Nothing really matters.
I figured that my time had come,
I had run through my last dime,
Thought I’d probably do some time.
Then Putin came, and rescued me,
Left that history all behind, and that’s the truth.
Mama, ooo ooo ooo, orange makeup shines.
Some people wish I’d never been born at all.
I see a little silhouetto of a man,
Scaramucci, Scaramucci, will you do the Fandango?
I need enlightening.
I’m very, very frightening.
(Galileo) Galileo.
Oh who was Galileo?
I don’t know.
Trump is Magnifico!
Poor little rich boy. Nobody loves me.
Kids into cages. A misbegotten family
Demon seed I’ve spawned to carry on
My monstrosity.
Vlad has the pee tape. He will never let me go!
MyGodMammon! He will not let you go! (Let me go!)
MyGodMammon! Vlad don’t let that show! (Let me go!)
MyGodMammon! He will not let you go! (Let me go!)
Got you by the ___ oh!
No, no, no, no, no, no, no
Handler mia, handler mia (handler mia, let me go!)
Comrade Vlad has a devil put aside for me, for me, for me!
So I think I can screw the whole country and still be idolized.
Cause my Trumpeteers cannot tell the bitter truth from lies.
O-baby, blame it on Obama, baby.
Just gotta be
Reelected you see
This year.
(Ooooooh, oooh yeah, oooh yeah)
No one really matters.
Anyone can see.
No one really matters
No one really matters.
But me.
Thank you, Glen Brown, for the brilliant use of Trump against Trump!!! Joe Biden needs to take a lesson from you during the debates. Simply get onto the stage and read Trump’s own words back to him. The continental army attacking the airports. Injecting disinfectant. The good people on both sides of the Nazi rally.
When facing insanity, laughter is the best antidote. Thank you, Bob.
Glen Brown is a genius & a mensch. Glen, so proud to know you & happy that you’re getting the volume of readership due you.
Everyone, subscribe to Glen’s blog; you won’t be sorry, & you’ll receive beautiful poetry every Sunday, a real gift. Thanks, Glen, & thanks for posting him here, Diane.
Retired, where is the Follow button on Glen’s site?
I found a clip of Trump reading his poetry. It’s moving:
https://mobile.twitter.com/AdamParkhomenko/status/1290794472738099207
Trump’s fundraising weekend included events at John Paulson’s home and at the home of Trump’s late friend, Stanley Chera who died of Covid in April. Too bad, all three don’t succumb to the same fate.
Trump’s appointee Peter Navarro wrote in 1988, “The insufferably bigoted, close-minded and dangerously well-disciplined storm troopers on the religious right wield far too much influence at the ballot box.” This weekend Navarro said, “The Lord and…created executive orders.”
Navarro must have had a change of heart, maybe a conversion like Kudlow.
Reblogged this on David R. Taylor-Thoughts on Education and commented:
The comments from the original post are priceless. Thank you Bob Shepherd