Sound the Trump-ettes

Each night I stay up way too late and send a ALL CAPS rant.
There’s so much that I want to say; Judge Merchan says I can’t.
I’ve said, and will keep saying, this: His Honor should recuse;
the court he runs is barely suitable for kangaroos.

My right to free speech has been blocked – unlawful! (I’m supposing.)
Most days each week I’m in a courtroom, where I’m sometimes dozing.
And when I’m not too sleepy, I complain the courtroom’s chilly.
I claim that I will testify; the pundits all ask, “Will he?”

First up: the former publisher of National Enquirer.
They granted him immunity; he says he’s my admirer.
He practiced “catch and kill” to squash reports of acts thought sleazy.
His name is David Pecker, which means he’s a… (nah, too easy).

I step outside the courtroom to proclaim this trial’s a sham.
Just payments to my lawyer; barely worth a tinker’s damn.
If I’m returned to office, I again will drain the swamp –
unless I am convicted for this costly porn-star romp.