August 25, 2016
Truly Terrible Trump Poems goes metaphysical
by Ian Dreiblatt
Holy sonnets, Batman! It’s time for another installment in our ongoing series of Truly Terrible Trump Poems, as we take on John Donne’s tenth sonnet, better known as Death, Be Not Proud. Diligent readers will note that this is horrendously bad. You’re welcome.
Diligent readers will also note the presence of the word “youse,” the under-appreciated second-person pronoun of New York’s rapidly disappearing outer-borough accent. This is, of course, a nod to Trump’s Queens roots. Rumors that the “youse” in question is little more than a ham-fisted attempt to force a rhyme have been greatly exaggerated.
Trump, be not proud, though some have called youse
Rich and a winner, ’cuz that is not so,
’Cuz, though you may think: I beat Rubio,
You lost, poor Trump, and also lost to Cruz.
The pride and greed with which your blusters ooze
Transfix us—yeah, you can put on a show,
Or fill a pool with all that you don’t know,
Surrogates thumping well-rehearsed Says whos.
Still, you’re desperation’s slave, a mirror of hate,
All your promises completely hollow,
A vapid twitter we have deigned to follow,
A rotten steak served on a fancy plate.
November ninth is already old news;
You’ve trumped yourself for good, Trump, you will lose.
Ian Dreiblatt is the director of digital media at Melville House.