TORToise President
He bestrides the world like a colossal tortoise
When everything he touches turns to mould,
You know there’s something very, very wrong.
His gold-like wife has sold herself for gold,
Though, yes, we could have known it all along—
That she’s not even gilt but plastic guilt.
She’s like those cars that Gulf State princes buy
With fake gold plastic on the bodies built
In Italy, a thin film that’s a sly
Attempt to look like eighteen-carat stuff.
He has a gold-like hair-do so that we
Won’t think that he goes touching tit and muff
When women say that he’s been on a spree
Of sex abuse. He sneers and gives a wink.
There’s no occasion where he doesn’t sink.