Kim Jong-un is smart and sharp and sometimes he’s mercurial.
There is no sense in rushing him; he’s never in a hurry. He’ll
Shake my hand and flash a grin and buss me on both of my cheeks.
We’re solid as a rock – until the moment that he speaks.
Normally some groundwork for a summit is essential
But that’s not how I ride into town – I’m modern presidential.
No need for preparation in advance that’s long and drawn out;
It’s like we’re on a date: this is the second time we’ve gone out.
Our first date was a great success; had high hopes for the second:
I thought this time our outcome would be pleasurably fecund.
While most wait for the third date to attempt a move that’s intimate,
I thought Kim sent a signal he was ready, and be into it.
We had a lovely dinner; evening air filled with l’amour.
Not even Otto Warmbier did I make him answer for.
I called him a great leader as I whispered in his ear,
Thinking I could make decades of conflict disappear.
I behaved respectfully and made no move that evening –
Thinking my objectives the next day I’d be achieving.
We’d sign a joint agreement and the world would say, “Fantastic!”
And then I’d show my cuddle bunny pleasures orgiastic.
But, sadly – things did not work out that way; it was a bummer.
We didn’t seal the deal (I didn’t even get a hummer).
I had a perfect right to act as if I were resentful, when
I’d paid for dinner. Yet – I chose to be a perfect gentleman.
A shame the North Koreans could not get their act together;
I’d really hoped to get my hands on Jong-un’s regions-nether.
My ego not the only thing subjected to frustration:
I suffered from a bout of premature denuclearization.
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