The Ballad of Donald Trump and the Angel

The Ballad of Donald Trump and the Angel

There came a time in Donald's life
when he was feeling low.
He'd gone and blown a billion bucks.
Oh, misery and woe!

Of course, it wasn't Donald's fault —
our Wall Street wonder boy.
It was the fault of Latinos
and other hoi polloi.

At least he lived in luxury
with supermodel wife.
It wasn't like he'd have to beg
and struggle through his life.

Yet Donald yearned for greater things —
his page in history.
But how he could achieve this goal
remained a mystery.

He sat within a darkened room,
his head held in his hands.
He pondered schemes to make his mark,
like huge investment plans.

A flash of lightning made him jump.
A man stood in the room.
A stranger who had horns and hooves
and stank just like the tomb.

Now, everybody knows that Don
is really brave and fit.
But though cut from heroic mold,
he may have pooped a bit.

“Wh-Who the Hell are you?” asked Don
in tones of suppressed fear.
“How did you get inside my house?
What are you doing here?”

“I am an Angel of the Lord,”
this guy said with a smirk.
“I am recruiting worthy souls
to do important work.”

“Don't angels have a pair of wings?”
asked Don and scratched his head.
“And where's your halo's golden ring?
You have two horns instead.”

“You can't believe the media,”
the angel said to Don.
“They've twisted facts to meet their needs
since days of Babylon.”

Our hero pondered this awhile;
he knew the tabloids lied.
They sadly also loved to print
home truths that hurt his pride.

“But why would God send you to me?
What can I do for Him?
I'm not too keen on charity
and right now things look grim.”

“Fear not, He has great plans for you,”
that angel said to Don.
“You are an ugly duckling now,
but soon you'll be a swan.”

“But that would take a miracle,”
protested Donald Trump.
“As friends and foes would fain agree,
I've always been a chump.”

“He wants to make you President
of the United States.
He needs a man of intellect
to guide folks through the straits.”

Our hero had to laugh at this.
“My reputation's wrecked.
Although I'm super sexy, friend.
I can't command respect.”

“Forget about perfection, Don,
you only need have faith,
and then you shall be President
on next November eighth.”

Don sighed. “I fear there's folks who think
I'm not a stand-up guy.
News anchors often tell the world
that all I do is lie.”

“Most folks hear what they want to hear,”
the angel said and grinned.
“Tell voters that they'll pay less tax
and they won't care you've sinned.”

Our hero shook his head and shrugged.
“There's also all those girls —
the ones who have complained because
I've fumbled with their pearls.”

The angel laughed aloud at this.
“Those bitches asked for it.
What is the point of being rich
if you can't grope a tit?”

He placed a hand on Donald's chest.
“We'll fix that mess with cash
and paint those whores as communists
or filthy trailer trash.”

“But what of all the things I've said
about the immigrants?
Too many people know about
my famous public rants.”

“The neo-fascists will love you!
You'll gather all their votes.
The blue collar will lick your boots
and publicize your quotes.”

The angel's promises made sense
and raised our hero's hopes.
“But surely I'll need more support
to win enough key votes.”

“Don't worry, Don,” the angel said.
“Election laws we'll bend.
I'll get you backing from the Bear
'cause Putin is my friend.”

While Don was happy to hear this
he still retained a qualm.
“Big corporations don't like me;
I can't grease every palm.”

“Don, just because they've made some bucks
it doesn't make them gods.
I've brought a gift for you to use
and help you beat the odds.”

The angel clicked his fingers once.
A gleaming wig appeared.
This shiny golden toupée looked
extremely cheap and weird.

Our hero raised a bushy brow.
“What do I do with that?
It looks just like the remnants of
a drowned albino rat.”

“Don't let appearance fool you, Don.
There's magic in this hair.
And once it's stuck upon your scalp
the world will think you care.”

The angel laughed and plopped that mop
upon our hero's head.
“This wig, you must wear all the time
including when in bed.”

At once, Don felt the magic seep
into his inner core.
Wearing this freaky hair, he knew
he'd never sound a bore.

A million speeches came to mind;
he'd kissed the Blarney Stone.
The power in this shaggy prop
could put him on the throne.

The angel then examined him.
“Yes, now you look the part.
That wig combined with orange skin
makes you look super smart.”

Don stroked the toupée lovingly.
“This is an awesome gift.
But what's the Lord need from me now?
I'm sure He'll want it swift.”

The angel rubbed his hands in glee.
“Oh, yes, He'll want it soon.
But first, kick those Latinos out
and Muslims out by June.”

“So, God hates every foreigner —
the darker skinned riffraff?
He wants me to deport them all
to split the wheat from chaff?”

The angel nodded with a sneer.
“Then end Obama Care.
Those smelly paupers getting help;
it really isn't fair.”

Our hero then began to fear
things confrontational.
“The actions you're suggesting are
unconstitutional.”

The angel shook his head and frowned.
“As long as you're on top,
who cares about democracy?
This charity must stop!”

With these opinions, Don agreed.
He'd like to be on top.
But fear of failure plagued his mind;
he'd always proved a flop.

The angel raised a finger then.
“And, Donald, don't forget —
this is a chance to help your kids.
Such awesome jobs they'll get.”

Our hero rubbed his chin and beamed.
“Ivanka would do great.
She isn't just a pretty girl —
her brains are adequate.”

“I promise, Don, you'll earn a place
within those dusty books
where acts of great and good are found
alongside those of crooks.”

Don grinned and shook the angel's hand.
“This wig will earn me fame.
But may I dare to ask one thing —
pray, friend, what is your name?”

“Some call me Wormwood or Old Nick
a few say Morning Star.
I stood by God at dawn's first light
and haven't wandered far.”

“Well, Wormwood, I shall try my best
to do God's work on Earth.
As long as that will also add
lots to my private worth.”

“I guarantee you'll profit, Don.
There's nothing wrong with that.
Go stake a claim in politics;
you'll find a welcome mat.”

“If that's the case, I am your man;
I think it will be fun
to act the part of bungling brat
until my term is done.”

And so our hero set his sights
on being President.
With God's support, he'd surely win
and kindle discontent.




LINE COUNT: 208
WORD COUNT: 1,173
FORM: an epic ballad written in traditional ballad measure

https://ebba.english.ucsb.edu/page/ballad-measure-in-print