An entry in a series of poems about Donald Trump: #PoemsForTrump. Please feel free to join in! Use the hashtag and post your own limericks, haiku, sonnets, whatever, or even just post links to poems that make you think of Trump. Make the best of a bad situation by making/sharing art, and satirizing a terrible human at the same time.
I already published this one in the poetry section of my site, but I wanted to post it again here, now that I've decided this should be a series.
Behind the poem: This wasn't in any particular poetic form; I let the form grow around the words, basically. It became a pseudo-sonnet, with a rhyming scheme that's similar to a Shakespearean sonnet, but with more lines. Also, the meter is anapestic tetrameter, and not the traditional iambic pentameter.
—
The Jackal or, At the Ceremony
At the fun'ral of truth, there were snickers and screams,
but no weeping at all. When the Jackal stood up
and he chewed up some words, they just split at the seams.
And his teeth were so white as he held up his cup —
when he toasted the body and drank his own health —
but his words were just gristle and sinew and flash.
"Have you seen this here suit? Though I say it myself,
it's fantastic, you know? Just the finest of flesh."
Setting cup on the corpse, he continued to speak:
"There's no body, you know. This is nonsense and lies.
I inherit, however." He wiped at a streak,
something red on his tie, while he swatted the flies.
"And a murderer? Me?" Then he laughed with a snort.
"Don't believe what you read... It's all mine now, by law,
you have given it freely. I'll prove it in court.
It is hate that makes right" — and he held up a claw —
"and it's might that makes cash. Only losers can die.
You all asked me to feed you, so turn up the lights.
On your right, on your left, have a look with your eyes —
they are fat, they are foreign; unlikely to fight."
And they licked at their lips and they said, "What a treat!"
And they all drew their blades and they started to eat. | 
by Fëanor
