A Happy Victory, Slightly Broken

I had hoped that after November third
I could breathe again and finally be cured
Of a long and terrible four-year disease,
The skank, smut, slop, scum, stink, sham, swamp, and sleaze
Of Donald Trump, the definitive worst
President with whom we’ve ever been cursed.
But it took four treacherous nightmare days
Stumbling through a tangled election maze
To learn that our nation voted to elect
Joe Biden, and also voted to reject
Further incompetence, laziness, deceits,
Abuses of power and illiterate tweets.
But that, unfortunately, wasn’t the end.
It was the beginning of a game, “Let’s Pretend.”
Inspired by a swarm of psychotic delusions
And fantasy screeching about collusions,
Trump said the counting was improperly done,
Then announced that he had, in fact, actually won.
“And I won big, very, very big,” he gloated,
His lie, like his body, perversely bloated.
Apparently Trump, a chronic accuser,
Is a vengeful, resentful, petulant loser.
True to his nature, he believes he’ll succeed
By simply refusing to ever concede.
So America’s stuck in political limbo
Because Trump’s such a cantankerous bimbo.
He thinks he’s smart and makes solid guesses;
What he makes instead are squalid messes.
There’s a generous, respected US tradition
For every Presidential transition:
The outgoing leader gives the new one a chance
To prepare for the office months in advance.
Obama gave Trump a period of grace
So that he’d be ready to move into place.
In this case, sadly, the chances are slim
Trump will give Biden what Obama gave him.
And of course he will spend his remaining days
In a nasty, indignant, destructive craze. 
He’ll snarl, whine, blame, steal, cheat, lie, and obstruct,
While looking for paintings and rugs to abduct.
There are so many people and policies left
That he can damage, leave distraught or bereft.
There is absolutely, utterly no doubt
He’ll cause major tsunamis before he walks out.
But sometime after January 21,
The Trump Apocalypse will be finished and done.
Justice, of course, walks a meandering trail;
Its fruits arrive late and they’re sometimes too frail.
But even if he’s never locked in a cell,
Even if he keeps his wealth and every hotel,
Even if all his properties remain,
Even if his power and status don’t wane,
Even if the lawsuits are just tossed aside, 
And from all consequences he can still hide,
Behind old shadows, a raw disturbing shape
Is forming and growls his name. But he won’t escape
For the word is scratched into winds of later times
As punishment for his unspeakable crimes.
In centuries ahead, books will be written
By people who aren’t particularly smitten
With Donald Trump, and they’ll write the truth:
He was lazy, stupid, dangerous, uncouth,
A whining, pouting criminal master 
Who gave his country an expanding disaster.
The evil he sent into the world, returned, 
Will give him exactly what he has earned –
A violent sentence that takes deadly aim
At the memories and meanings of his own name.
It will poison his dreams, beliefs, and his pride,
And kill him many times after he’s died.
His descendants will moan and crouch with their shame
When someone mutters the blighted family name.
The word TRUMP will break off, be dismantled, or fade
Before the buildings and companies have decayed.
No one will remember any Trump glories,
But his name will live on in often-read stories.
For the rest of eternity, the whole world will know
He was wicked, inept, full of rancor and woe.
Hundreds of books will tell the unruly tale
Of menace and ruin on a global scale.
For his infinite sins and his terrible wrongs,
History will put him where he belongs.