How deftly, how swiftly has Our Leader dug
Himself in a hole where he sits tight and snug.
Well, “sits” isn’t quite right: he wants to get out,
And how mightily does he rage, holler and pout!
But a deep hole it is, and filling with rain,
Which truckers and soccer moms call gas-pump pain.
Now, you can’t blame Iran for fighting their fight,
And making half the world think of Trump with great spite,
Since it can’t sanction the Yanks or set up a base
In Bogota, Cuba, or some sun-drenched place,
And so must telegraph their whacks across earth,
By pushing the markets to spasms of dearth.
Which surprised Our Leader and his merry band,
Who thought Persians were a more Latin-ish brand
That would roll over and die at the first sign of prob’s,
And not send out missiles in hairy great gobs
To U.S. bases and Tel Aviv barbers,
To Emirates, Saudis and U.S.N. harbors.
A miscalculation anyone could commit,
Like figuring your wife would stay and not split,
Or that the tree would fall to the left and not right,
Or that you could cross ‘fore the change of the light,
Or your credit excesses the bank would cover,
And if not those creeps, then your brother or lover.
Yes, big mistakes are part of anyone’s life,
And character shows when one confronts strife,
As Our Leader is doing by air, land, and sea,
Saying he’ll turn Persia into chicken fricassee,
Which means their white flag will surely fly in a trice,
Since Our Leader never makes the same mistake twice.
