Like beaches usually are.
Some oysters from the working class
Were hunched around their cars.
When a distant chunky figure.
Clocked those bivalves from afar.
His bleached hair combed across his skull.
His mouth a sphincter smile.
Donald Trump, who else?
He was up to something vile.
No threat at all he seemed at first
But our most fortunate fortunate son.
Had shellfish on his selfish mind.
Looking out for number one.
So dripping sweat and snorting
Like a cokehead with a cold.
He closed the sandy distance.
With a game that don’t get old.
The Trumpster walked up proudly
Squinting at the sun.
His fake tan gleamed like candy corn.
He thought he’d have some fun.
“Hey oysters, guys. You seem depressed.
And I can tell you why.
The government is not your friend.
They lie and lie and lie.
Fake news too! And PC pointyheads.
All want to see you die.
They rigged the game so you can’t win.
Don’t play. Don’t even try.
But come with me, my oyster friends
And we can get them back!
Let’s truck on down this beach
And plan out our attack.
Right past that rock, right over there.
We’ll stop and have a snack.”
The aging hippy looked at them
And shook his shaggy head.
“I’ve seen this shuck before, OK?
You see that loaf of bread?
That fascist’s going to eat you up!
You’re going to wind up dead!”
“Fuck you, hippy” they all replied
And kicked him in the head.
Fast-forward half a mile or so.
They sheltered in the rough.
“The time has come,” the Trumpster said.
To talk of things and stuff.
Of why the rich are overtaxed.
And enough is not enough.
Of why the sea is boiling hot.
And why I brought this pot.
And why I brought this pot.
You want a happy ending
This ain't the poem for you
The Trumpster and his hungry friends
Scarfed down on oyster stew.
"Who feels guilty? Anyone?"
But there came no boo-hoo-hoo.
"That's what I thought," the Trumpster smiled
And raised a glass of brew.
"Losers lose and winners feast
I got plenty more for you!"
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