I can't find my opinion about The Big Peach,
Ever'where do I search, even under bed reach,
I check my coat pockets and look in the car,
Check back with the 'papers to see how things are,
But those doggone opinions, slippery as eels:
As soon as you grab one, it's odd how it feels.
Like all mothers' sons would I love to see Trump
Fuming in lockdown, a jump-suited frump,
But as long as his party forgives all his crap,
Christmas will he spend in the White House's lap.
Which means the Process is but fury and sound,
Signifying ratings but once a year found.
Besides, this Process what species of peach is?
Revengesis politicii, which hasn't much fizz.
Dirty laundry in Wash-town does keep it real,
And if pols can't find it, they call their Bob Steele,
Who'll invent a few orgies out Russia way,
With ladies of pragmatically easy per-sway.
Me, I can think of some deep peachy pie,
Like with no due process a-droning some guy:
Or not minding Congress when its will is given,
Or warring in Syria where our troops are livin',
Actions that should mean a legal hard scuffle,
But Bush, O. and Don play Security Shuffle.
All of which preceding a clear precedent sets:
A prez does what he wants and takes without frets.
As long as he cleaves to the Establishment script,
His gang will applaud and his critics get ripped.
Though this peach has skin and some meat under that,
It's hollow at core and will likely go splat.