In polished halls where budgets flow,
There sits a leader we all know.
His platform built on colored smoke,
His every promise, half a joke.
He walks with pomp, a wig askew,
A grand balloon of crimson hue.
His hands, they wave, impossibly wide,
As if the truth he meant to hide.
His tie is long, his logic brief,
A painted smile to mask his grief—
The grief of having zero clue
What serious leaders ought to do.
He rode the tiny, creaking car
Of fame and shouting, fast and far.
No history known, no law he reads,
Just simple, brightly colored needs.
The cabinet meetings are a show,
He pulls a flower where ideas should grow.
He squirts the press with noisy joy,
A giant, giggling, empty toy.
And when the nation asks for sense,
He offers pies and false pretense.
For he's the man who wears the crown,
A genuinely unqualified clown.
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