We knew T-Rex from its tiny claws Its hungry mouth, its toothy jaws. But how can we assess T-**** When all our data’s from a stump And weekly polls that flinch and jump?
The answer’s lying deep below Perhaps with Edgar Allen Poe Whose poetry is dark and slow.
A creature walking o’er the earth In privilege stretching back to birth That claims ascendance overall And loves to brag and boast and brawl And sometimes recoils, sometimes howls (One sometimes wonders at its bowels— When watching active ****** scowls.)
T-**** is marching to consume What’s going on in the newsroom And feeds on minor predators, (Ignoring its own creditors). It likes to crouch and dance and pose While speaking in a broken prose And often wrinkling up its nose At anything that might oppose Or even worse, that might expose, Its streak of show-and-tell sideshows.
Alas when sizing up T-**** One hits a show-and-tell speed bump That’s not about its topmost clump Or its eternal ****** frump. We know, somehow, we’re each a chump In thinking that there was an ump Who’d put things on the ump and ump And so we lazed, and scrimped and scrumped Instead of what we’d need to do— To find what’s cleanly new and true, And redirect our Waterloo Away from its own cancerous lump And toward a far less spurious zoo. In other words, to dump T-****!