My edition of a new poem by Donald J. Trump is out in the Sherman Oaks Review of Books. In the meantime, for those who just can't get enough poetry:
|Image from The Telegraph and a funny-not funny Ukip story about "one of those things that happens between men," Farage said, speaking of that time one Ukip Member of the European Parliament beat up another one badly enough to put him in the hospital, which was yesterday morning, presumably to welcome Farage back to the party leadership after his 18-day sojourn in the back-bench wilderness.|
There was an old fart called Farage
Who enjoyed a peculiar ménage:
With his wife and his horse,
Which was bare-backed, of course,
And its curiously rhythmic frottage.
A fascist called Nigel Farage
Was much more than a mere coprophage,
For he ate his own shit,
That disgraceful old git,
With a bottle of Mâcon-Villages.
Not provoked by anything in particular, just something I needed to do.