In the nether regions where the devil holds his sway
an imp reported to him on the World from day to day.
“Your Imperial Infernalness” the imp said with good cheer,
“a champion for all your dreams is likely to appear!”
“We have reports that Donald Trump is eager to destroy
the rights of men to worship or their conscience to employ!”
Mr. Scratch was heartened by these words, and so he bent
his cloven steps up to the World, more mischief to invent.
He came upon the Donald making speeches full of hate,
and sat back so that in this bile he could luxuriate.
“Register the Moslems, make them take out papers that
take away their liberties forever!” Donald spat.
“And keep an eye on Buddhists and the Hindus, gleichzeitig;
if they act suspicious we will throw them in the brig!”
Satisfied that he had found a protege at last,
the daddy of all lies decided he must act real fast.
“Sign this little contract” he commanded Donald Trump,
“and I will turn each of your foes into a harmless chump!”
“The riches of the World are mine to give to you, my boy;
and you will have the power all the towel-heads to destroy!”
But Donald, who had written on the Art of Dealing Sly,
was not about to be stampeded by this horny guy:
“I also want to have the sole concession down in Hell
bottled water and ice cream to peddle and to sell.”
“And the right to build casinos and an office park,
and be your second-in-command down in there in the dark.”
The devil was astounded at this resolute demand,
and felt like he had ventured into treacherous quicksand.
Deciding that retreat was much the better plan instead,
he flew back down to Hell with broken heart and battered head.
And Donald, he continued his malarkey to advance —
conducting his campaign just by the seat of his silk pants.