Donald, Donald, orange bright In the forests of the night What immoral hand or eye, Could frame they fearful symmetry? In what distant deep or skies Burnt the ire of thine eyes? On what lies dare thee conspire What the hand, dare seize the fire? And what shoulder, & what art, Could place the evil in thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat What dread hair & and what damaged feet? What the hammer? What the chain, In what madness churns thy brain? What the anvil? What dread grasp Dare create thy pompous ass? When the Senate gave up their spears And abandoned honor in their tears Did the devil smile his work to see? Did he rejoice in making thee? Donald, Donald burning bright, In our country you haunt the night What immoral hand or eye Dare inflict us with your symmetry?
Author’s note: Apologies to William Blake and John Keats for borrowing their magnificent words and to Dan Walsh who, if he reads this, will forever regret introducing me to their work.