The Lay of Sir Donald

The Lay of Sir Donald (Or: Le Chanson de Donald) An orange man – of red and trailing tie, Small hands, and copious twitter-feed – sing I! Most staunch ’gainst Saracen and Mede is he, Bare-armed and ruddy-necked his followers be. Brightly he barteth, and knows how, full well, In sev’n-score characters his truth to tell. Courtly he is to nymphs – yea, most correct – And any contradictions he’ll reject: Talk of “ailuric rapture”, he maintains, Was nothing more than banter between swains. And though, by direst foe as “dotard” shamed – By REGAL liege-man “moron”, too, proclaimed – He’s shunned by ANGELA, the Teuton queen For policies much nearer black than green, He’s loved by VIKTOR, chief of Magyar horde, And (still?) VLADIMIR, Muscovy’s dark lord. But all now tremble at his reckoning, In Orient far, with JONG the Hermit King. Tis hard to know whose head is the more beefy Or whose hair more eccentric’ly coiffefe. “Since in ballistics you indulge, and fission,” Quoth he, “Let us contend in micturition. My country’s armoury is locked and loaded To make yours but a wilderness,” he goaded. You doubt he sets his cap at Tyranny? That risk of Bloody Warre augmented be? As well to doubt the POPE’S denomination, Or Silvan Sites of Ursine Defecation!