Trump’s got a thing on his noggin starched,
Totally motionless even when wind starts.
Trump wants to be the top banana—
Put gold-plated toilets in the Casa Blanca.

He’s Trump, he’s Trump,
What’s on his head?
He’s Trump, he’s Trump, he’s Trump—
It’s never shed.

Trump triggers tripe when his trap trains
Toward topics that are totally, terribly insane.
He’s joined up with the Birther band. . .
On Trump’s head’s a heap that is from a foreign land.

He’s Trump, a clump
Is on his head.
He’s Trump, he’s plump, a chump
Who looks inbred.

Trump’s a pimp for himself, and he’s hooked on self-love;
Trump thinks he’ll get picked for office high above.
This primping simian mobster-speaks;
A chimp who talks ain’t best for who leads.

He’s Trump, he’s Trump—
Let’s use our heads.
And dump this chump named Trump
Of him be shed.

He’s Trump, he’s Trump—
Bankruptcy Rex
He’s Trump, his humps pre-nups,
Banged sluts now ex.

What has Trump got on his head?
I don’t know.
And is Trump’s strange campaign dead:
I hope so.
Is the Trump empire in red?
I think so.
Is it Trump by whom we’re led?
No! No!! NO!!!