On Christmas Day, I hit the links.
My golfing partner: Lindsey Graham.
Covid payout sum? It stinks –
I said two-thousand we should pay ‘em.
Unemployment runs out quickly;
Once again a shutdown’s looming.
Are there vaccines for the sickly?
We’ve got plenty – I’m assuming.
Renters once more face eviction
(Biden handed me my notice).
I keep tweeting ballot fiction:
four more years I’ll be your POTUS.
Turned my back on Steve Mnuchin;
pulled the rug right out from under.
What do I want? There’s confusion –
prototypical Trump blunder.
So much for my jive and shucking;
I’m a counterfeit tycoon who
clearly doesn’t give a fucking
shit about what happens to you.
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