(Trump Tower penthouse. Midnight. A tempest rages without. TRUMP, in monogrammed pajamas, monogrammed bath robe, and monogrammed slippers, drinks Yoo-Hoo from monogrammed mug and roams the monogrammed rooms.)
TRUMP:
Now is the winter of our prim’ry run
Become the summer of our discontent.
The crowds who in December all did shout
Our shared desire to make the country great
Are come as one a mob of angry thugs
Demanding only that we “hang the bitch.”
Their cheers, which once proclaimed a love for me,
Express but raging hatred for my foe.
And I, who vanquished sixteen rivals dead,
Disdaining programs, plans, and compromise,
By mocking and insulting off the cuff,
Who fair and square did win the Party’s nom,
With naught but “build a wall” and “keep them out,”
Must now endure abandonment and scorn,
Denunciations, contumely–and from
Republicans who should be on my side.
For this young Lewendowski had to fall
Upon the twin-edged sword that was his youth—
His ruthlessness a boon, and yet his age
Won no respect from those I had to court.
And so with Manafort I set my course,
Appreciative of tyrants he had helped.
His hair still dusted from Ukrainian snows
Gave proof of wisdom, contacts, Russian funds–
Or so bad counsel led me to believe.
Then did this false ally command me turn,
To pivot from the Trump that all have hailed,
Becoming meek, concilia’try, and still,
To sit in briefings, listen, and take notes,
To cram like any student for a quiz,
In Hist’ry, Econ, Poli-Sci, and more,
From gen’rals, eggheads, brainiacs, and worse.
Two months of this was all I could abide.
I, Trump, would let them turn me to a grind?
Obedient, reciting what I’m told?
Conceding to the tired status quo,
When I have come to overturn the world?
And at this moment of my greatest win,
To start again, a child gone to school?
My public boasts, I grant, are all for show
But here in private, at the midnight hour,
My trophy wife consigned to her vitrine,
My wretched children in their sev’ral homes,
I may unto my Presbyter’ian god
(In whose existence I believe as much
As other men believe in Peter Pan)
Confess the truth and all that I do know.
I have no proven skill except for one.
I cannot paint or draw or play the lute,
I cannot write, but hire those who can,
Nor sing nor cook nor dance a good gavotte,
And e’en at golf, at which I oft do try,
I cannot win but wherein I must cheat.
But I have the ability to deal–
To bargain, dicker, haggle, give and take,
Negotiate with frenemies I choose
To give so that I get more than I give.
I am a salesman—‘tis a noble role
For in our world each thing does have its price,
And ev’ry man likewise a sum he needs.
‘Tis not my job to learn. It is to sell—
A task that wants a two-front war campaign.
The first, my rival to besmirch and diss,
Unto my customer with warnings dire,
With innuendoes harsh and claims of crime,
Corruption and mendacity, and this,
The better to prepare them for what’s next.
I hypnotize with promises and lures—
Not lies, as those who hate me do accuse,
But pleasing fancies which, when taken up
By the imagination of my marks,
Will cause a pang of loss when then I turn
And walk, the whole discussion for to quit.
Then does the customer, despite himself,
Relent, and settle for but half the dream,
I have implanted in his willing mind,
Conceding unto me a victory.
This is my art. It’s what I’m born to do:
Attack, defame, and slander in the morn,
Then soothe with honeyed promises at night.
Not court an am’rous TelePrompTer with
A canned and vetted speech that’s D.O.A.
Pretending I “regret” when I do not.
Thus I’m resolved that Manafort must go,
And op’ratives more soulless take his place.
(Do hellspawn such as that even exist?
On speed-dial have I got them in my phone.)
So surly Bannon shall the rudder take,
And she-witch Conway hence direct my sail.
For I need no instructor, but a club
To beat to pulp the very unfair press.
I want no taming, pivoting, nor tact,
But freedom to defame, seduce, and roar.
“Let Trump be Trump” shall henceforth be my cry,
The better this election to present
A choice between a schoolmarm, strict and dull,
Corrupted, vile, her pantsuits an affront,
And me, a handsome winner with my tan,
My famous hair a wonder of the world,
My wife desired by ev’ry man not gay,
My pitch a pledge to make the country great.
To run…to win! To run, perchance to lose.
Ay, there’s the rub. Then if that ‘comes the news,
I’ll blame it on the cheating, on the me-
Dia, political correctness, on
The immigrants, the Clintons, and the Jews.
[Exeunt.]
[Exit]
