For Uncle Phil's checked his old crystal ball,
And seen the future which does him appall.
At the end of a month or six weeks into primes,
His Trumpness still strong and spending his dimes,
The Republican brass will slip him the word:
"Sire, thy racism hath too much hate stirred."
.
And away will The Donald most angrily stomp,
Change his ship's flag and continue to romp,
Leaving the others to scurry and slaughter,
At the Convention to spray muddy water,
Whence will emerge a blue suit with wet grin,
That not even his mother thinks will get in.
.
.
.
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