Poems
by Tony Dawson

 

 

The Big Orange

 

wants to compete with the Big Apple

in terms of world significance,

but not the one with the bite out of it,

which already shows his teeth marks.

For now, he continues his vendettas

against perceived enemies, such as

James Comey, former director

of the famous but incompetent FBI,

for having the nerve to investigate

Big Orange’s Russian Connection:

lawfare for billionaires filed

under the heading ‘frivolous’.

Meanwhile, Pete Hogshead,

Secretary of War, has summoned

every American Admiral and General

from around the world to DC,

perhaps to start an unlikely war

that the Big Orange is able to stop.

Pete could start with the one

between Armenia and Cambodia,

which the Big Orange invented.

If Pete, the drinker’s thinker,

could start it and stop it,

the Big Orange, King of Lies

would be only one stumble

from his longed-for Peace Prize.

 

 

 

 

 

Uterine Policy

 

Donald J Trump the ludicrous

has a policy on each woman’s uterus

apparently serious, not humorous.

Flabby old Donald, the glutinous,

claimed on Truth Social that he saluted us

when squeezed out of his mother’s uterus.

On top of that, the orange-faced fornicator

compared it to descending a gold escalator.

 

 

 

 

 

Tilting at Windmills

 

Donny has two forms of exercise:

changing his diaper and being

driven to a golf course.

The missing link plays the links.

Golf is a good walk spoiled,

it’s said, so, once he tees off,

he solves that problem using a cart.

He drives to where his ball

has landed, merely halfway up

the fairway, eases his lard arse

out of the buggy, picks up

the ball and drops it on the green

adjacent to the hole. At that point

he spots a line of windmills

parading down to the sea.

Donny is beside himself

for windmills slaughter birds!

No wonder he’s never scored

a flock of birdies, let alone

an eagle, albatross or condor.

The only hole-in-one he scored

was playing with Stormy Daniels.

Plenty of bogeys, though, which is

no surprise for a bogeyman.

Fuming, he squeezes into his cart,

takes out a number 9 iron,

holding it like a knight’s lance

as if he is in a medieval joust,

and sets off at top speed

towards the nearest windmill,

a latter-day fat Don Quixote.

His buggy careers down the slope

and over the cliff, to land with a splat

in the sand trap called the beach,

dreaming, no doubt, of his Dulcinea,

also known as Melanoma.

 

Rate this poetry.

Copyright is reserved by the author. Please do not reproduce any part of this article without consent.