Little Don from the suburbs has become leader of the Free World.
Little Don sits in the seat of kings.
Little Don from the suburbs was raised in the borough of Queens
and born into the cruelty of capital.
Little Don from the suburbs has squandered his toys
and gilded everything with golden plasma from the sun.
Little Don from the suburbs has fused the Confederate flag
on his skin, his orange skin.
Little Don is the vehicle that drives the economy and the Dukes of Hazzard.
Little Don desperately needs to sit down because it’s getting late.
Little Don from the suburbs loves all the little brown children
to death.
Little Don truly loves America, but all that love has gone awry
in his crotch.
Little Don from the suburbs is the Mad Hatter because
he blows his top sometimes,
and his hair, his yellow hair, has become his hat.
This is the dawning of the Little Don’s transparency, his sleight
of hands,
his raging, bulging, red eyes, his foaming rhetoric from the mouth.
Little Don from the suburbs drapes himself in red, blue, and white.
In different patterns of stars and stripes.
Little Don from the suburbs carries a sacred Book with him sometimes
and raises it up on high, but it’s upside down.
And who am I? I’m just a voice, a blip in the radar, but Little Don,
Little Don from the suburbs, has become leader of the Free World.
I don't take myself too seriously, but I am serious about this poem. It is not intended to put anyone down but simply to lift up spirits, including the subject of the poem.
