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Have you ever heard a reporter accuse
A prez of high treason on your evening news?
On the Tube I saw it and elsewhere read more,
And thought here was music set to new score:
A new downward turn in the bod' politic,
A new tone of wowdom to make a rep stick.
"He's either been bought or has sold out to Poot',
Kissing his tush and Crimea to boot!
'Cause why else would a prez to Putin cowtow,
When they should be having a hairy great row?
It must be that Vlad has the scoop on our Don!"
Or so shout the scribes from hither and yon.
Such is the Pravda of American life,
The hard-eyed careerists and climbers so rife,
Anchors, guests and writers all working as one,
To make sure the Pentagon has plenty of fun
With budgets for oodles of villains in black:
And no one beats Russkies for scowls and sly hack.
Now Arabs aren't bad but they're flash-in-the-pan:
Qaeda ain't cuttin' it without their Big Man,
ISIS went fizz and the rest are a joke,
The Talibs excepted, but then who gives a poke?
There's nothing like Russians to prickle your toes,
With those pale bland faces cast perfect as foes.
So for Trump to sit down with "a KGB thug,"
(An honest bald pate versus Don's orange rug),
And try to mend fences and find common grounds,
Invites an invective that's gone beyond bounds,
In a derby to out-hate the rest of the pack,
And secure to oneself the best job and most jack.