Gilty
The penthouse of Donald J. Trump
Has pillows quite plump for your rump
But it’s filled to the hilt
With the wrong type of gilt
Which is why I’ve been stuck in a slump.
If the guilt I’d prefer were displayed
Then I wouldn’t feel quite so betrayed
But the sparkle of gold
Even fake, I am told,
Is sufficient, at times, to persuade.
In the White House, perhaps we’ll be graced
With some glitz in Melania’s taste
And there’ll be no debate
Once America’s great
All that gilt will be warmly embraced.
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