by Donald J. Trump
In a new poem introduced at a reading in Manheim, PA, October 1, Donald Trump takes a newly subdued, elegiac tone, apparently contemplating the bleak possibility that he might not make America great again; with the plangent echo of a repeated line: “It’s getting worse./It’s not getting better./It’s getting worse.” And a warning—”you’re unsuspecting”—that it might be worse than you think.
How? You’re at the rally, and you think you might follow it up with a movie, you and your partner, but you won’t; you’ll be “too high and excited” to be satisfied by a movie. Really? Only sex can assuage that Trumpian ache and fever?
Modestly, the poet does not go that far. A movie can do it. But they don’t make that kind of movie any more. His theme: “I am bigly; it’s the pictures that got littly.”
And it’s getting worse.
It’s not getting better.
It’s getting worse.
And you’re unsuspecting.
Right now, you say to your wife:
“Let’s go to a movie after Trump.”
But you won’t do that because
you’ll be so high and so excited
that no movie is going to satisfy you.
Okay? No movie.
You know why? Honestly?
Because they don’t make movies
like they used to — is that right?
What a difference.
