This lineup change may make a “yuuge” shift,
Keep Donald up to bat for future swings.
To some it will be home run–others, miss–
A friendly court so close, he sees its stitching.
Ted Cruz, the bleachers play, is too far out;
The choices now all come from central casting.
And even here, Trump looks for kith to kin,
Though narrow picks’ effects may well be lasting.
Today we meet the problems yet to come,
Before the pitch, there’s outrage in the stands.
The wind-up done, the crowd begins to hum:
Will this be curve, or fast one, from small hands?
A knuckleball whose path cannot be guessed,
Arrives at home, by voters’ rooting blessed.


To people of our world my thanks to you,
Obama and his staff who passed the throne—
Though once controlled by foreigners like you,
Power lies now in huge hands of my own.
The censorship of the past: forgotten!
We’ll speak our minds and boldly inquire.
Exported will those be from nations rotten—
All products tariffed, all Americans hired.
As the Bible so infallibly has shared,
God’s people—us—must fight for first, united.
American liberty is hereby declared;
Let rapists and killers stay divided.
Under my thumb all chains will break;
Until America great, again, we make.



As postered protesters deluge the streets
Left empty by inauguration’s storm,
The presidential press-man argues tweets
That say the crowds weighed in below the norm.
Where once Trump said there was no call to gauge
The size of taxes, hands, or Russian hackers,
He now tweets Nielsen ratings in outrage,
Then flips himself, allowing all protesters.
Cavorting to “My Way” with royal feet,
Then offering a C.I.A. address,
It seems the conflict he most wants to meet
Is not with terrorism but the press.
These days, the size of things is much in doubt,
If statecraft’s larger scale he can’t make out.