The anniversary of our discontent
Hath come and gone with sheriffs still intent
On bringing Our reign to untimely end.
Made glorious by the criers of untruths,
This inquiry is in fact no more than
A superstitious game for witch seekers.
Though Our foul treachery tameth any witch,
Our honor hath been treated so unfair,
that just revenge is owed in sacred debt.
So much respect is played upon this sheriff,
It sickens to hear such recurrent praise:
renowned in war, esteemed in law, low handicap.
But, I, the heir to billions from my dad,
Who ventured with aggressive haste and fraud
By lying, cheating, and evading laws,
Had to seek bankruptcy more than thrice.
I, with such a large, misshapen ass,
That somehow turns brown in white golfing pants,
Who had to buy my wives from Slavic lands,
and was deprived of owning football clubs,
am treated with such hapless disrespect.
Born to be ascended to the throne,
Before the end, my reign shalt all bemoan.
My name hath all the western world maligned,
O, God, Thou treatest Thy good Trump unkind!
And so, since Thou hast not made me the hero,
A more determined villain shalt I be.
Rasputin’s master shows more constancy,
For those forsaken by such unfair Fate.
The people’s politics is so untoward,
That now We have become their sophist lord.
So now, to spite the false and biased God,
We hath beset His artless creations,
In deadly hate, the one against the other.
And now the naïve souls shalt follow Us,
Down to the depths of Our new master’s realm,
But not before their rampant bitterness,
Elects Us as their Emperor for life!
As soon they know their fate, the imps shalt wish,
That all they found was truly just a witch!
In their nightmares and Our eternal dream,
This rude, misshapen fraud shalt reign supreme!