'twas the eve of the election

Twas the eve of the election and all through the House,
Congress did abhor him; he's viewed as a louse.
About the Constitution and veterans he pretended to care,
But his gaffes and blunders were too much to bear.

The Clintons were nestled snug in separate beds;
While activist judges danced in their heads;
Hil in her pantsuit, and Bill in some w****,
Had just settled in for a long autumn snore.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
Bill sprang from his bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window he flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The dark moonless night and the new-fallen leaves,
Did plenty to hide the all drunks' late-night heaves,
When what to his wondering eyes stood there,
With miniature hands and bright orange hair?

With a tongue like a razor so lively and quick,
Bill knew in a moment he must be a yuuuge p****.
Faster than male virgins his defenders they came,
And he bloviated with platitudes, and called them by name:

"Neo-****s! KKK! Yes, you, David Duke!
On, White Trash! on, Racists! Make those Libtards all puke!
Let's keep them all out! Let's build us a wall!
For Muslims and Mexicans, brown people all!"

As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So up to the housetop the gullible threw
A pile of yard signs, and Donald Trump too—

And then, in a twinkling, Bill heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As he drew in his head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney The Donald came with a bound.

His skin was all orange, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were from sweatshops in China taboot;
A cheap Russian w**** he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a cheap pimp demanding a stack.

His eyes—how they beaded! his squinting, how scary!
His tiny hands flailed and he looked like a fairy!
His evil big mouth was flinging about spittle,
And the thing on his head was a whole other riddle;

A Trump of a steak he held tight in his teeth,
And its stench, it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had an orange face and weird little hands
That shook when he shouted ludicrous demands.

He was ill-spoken and angry, like an internet troll,
Although if you asked him he found himself droll;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Imparted to everyone a sickening dread;

He spoke the best words, then got bigly to work,
And broke all his contracts; then he yelled like a j***,
"Pay workers?" he sneered, "Maybe when I'm in heaven.
I don't have a payroll, I use Chapter Eleven;"

He sprang to his feet, that rhinoceros pizzle,
And away he then flew like an orange cruise missile.
If you found all this frightening, this odd little note —
The first Tuesday in November, get your a** out and vote!