XYZ Resident Poet, Steve B
Obammy’s pajammys went missing one day
He wondered if Donald had stolen them away
He asked his husband, ‘Where could they be?’
He twirled his schlong and said, ‘Don’t look at me.’
So Barry went searching for his itinerant attire
And cursed the Trump who had set the fire
Of intense scrutiny of the miserable failure
Of being seen without his night time regalia.
Of eight years as president and whose crowning story
Culminated in laws for transgender glory
So husband Michael could sit on the throne
In a men’s room when so far from home.
He found his pajammys, along with his slippers
And the southward direction of his trouser zippers
All crumpled and creased, lying at the head
Of a frame with a placard that read, Hillary’s bed.
‘Oh my Allah, what have I done?
All I wanted was a bit of fun.
So commoners would love me and they would see
It’s not about her, but all about me.’
But Michael, his big brutish muscular hubby
Said, ‘Get over here bitch, I’ve got something stubby.
You want a taste of Hillary’s supernova?
Stand right in front of me and bend over.’
And the glorious sounds of his ‘legacy’ being shunted
Rang out across the world as he was shirt fronted
Not only by the Don, who had him in a spin
But also by his hubby who pushed his stool in!!!
Photo by globochem3x1minus1 
