Speculation's rife on why Don called it off,
Everyone on everyone's theory to scoff,
So instead of trusting experts so-called,
I called an old buddy who's suit-and-tie bald,
Who gave me the skinny thorough and proper,
For he was there holding Don's Double Whopper.
He tells me clear that at the very last min',
The Kremlin hot line began ringing like sin.
To Don Vlad talked turk for ten minutes no less,
And said that he thought the attack was B.S.:
"The last thing I need's a call from Rouhani,
Asking me to come to the rescue Irani'."
Don told Vlad he could just send the guy packing,
The attack was only a little base-whacking,
Something guys do for Saturday-night fun,
A lark, a laugh, or what they called a "milk run,"
But no sooner'd he hung up than Xi checked in,
Worried his supplier would get kicked in the shin.
"What the hell is this?" Don hissed sharp to the room,
"Does everyone know we're about to let boom?"
The Chinese wouldn't stand for a single attack,
So Don could go and tell his jets to turn back.
"We do as we please, my little grasshopper,
You guys can make iPhones, but no decent Whopper."
"That's tellin 'em, Chief!" all cried in the room,
When into the Oval Ivanka did zoom,
Eyes full of tears, lovely mouth all a-jag,
"Father, please tell me this invasion's a gag!
My fashion firm has its fall runway tomorrow!
It'll get buried if the news is all sorrow!"
Don hem-hawed and said, "Can you let the show slide?
Just for three days until the news has all dried."
But I. stomped her foot, scowled and dug in high heel:
"I've got models and venues and it's all a done deal!"
So with minutes to go Don asked in half-moan,
"Guys, how many people will die for that drone?"