Miss Pussy's Parlor Songs, Part Six

SING A SONG OF TAPPING

 

Sing a song of tapping,

A socket full of eye,

President Obama

Is nothing but a spy.

He ordered my Trump Tower

To be tapped on the sly!

Such nastiness is awwfull,

It makes me wanna cry.

He heard me and the Russians

Plotting to subvert

The Democrats' election,

And gosh! That kinda hurt!

He heard me tell a lie...,

Okay, so, more than one,

But fibbing under oath, I hear,

Is often kinda fun--

If you don't believe me,

Ask Clinton, he will say

That bj's in the White House

Are often kind of gay...,

Oops! I didn't mean that,

I'd rather urinate

On girls in a hotel

(I don't mean Watergate).

When that leak is over

My birds begin to sing --

Believe me, all my Tweeting

Is not to blame! Nothing

To do with it at all!

That nasty man Obama

Tapps everyone I call.

When I am in my counting-house

Fondling all my money,

My wife is in New York alone

Eating bread and honey

Or standing in the bathroom

Picking out her nose,

Obama's in the closet

Hiding in our clothes!

 

 

Trump's mental health has been arrested,

Much like the immigrants he's seeking,

Which stinks a lot and is detested:

Look at the havoc! He is reeking.

 

 

"Biggest chuckle of the morning: Kelly Ann Conway asked about Trump's assertion that his 'wires had been tapped' at Trump Tower, responds by saying that there are lots of ways to wiretap today, including through microwaves. Microwaves? Be careful. Be very careful what you say while you are popping popcorn. Big brother is listening!"

-- John T. Sullivan, Jr.

 

Be careful, very careful what

You say while popping popcorn!

Big Brother's in your microwave

Searching through your porn,

Listening beneath your bed,

Recording squeaking springs

Among dust bunnies and, of course.

Sundry other things

 

Like moans of ecstasy and lust

Coming from above.

Kelly Conway's got her ear

Tuned in to sounds of love

For Donald Trump's CD collection:

They'll gather every word

That you emit, and every scent

As well as every turd.

 

 

HYMN FOR KELLYANNE CONWAY

With apologies to Rev. Shurtleff

 

Lead on, O Queen infernal,

The Ides of March have come;

Henceforth in fields of funfest

Your texts will e'er be dumb.

Through days of desperation

Your words will be our song;

And now, O Queen infernal,

You've proved you're always wrong.

 

Lead on, O Queen infernal,

Till Trump has lost his lease

And foolishness has frittered

Away and we're at peace,

For not with Trumpets blaring

Or beating teeth and gums,

With all your silly errors

We seek our roll of Tums.

 

Lead on, O Queen infernal,

We laugh till we're in tears,

For giggles turn to roaring

Where'er your face appears

Your microwave hums o'er us,

Emitting unwitting jokes --

We are your doting chorus,

Frogs croaking till it chokes.

 

 

A CLEVER SPICER

 

Not even a clever Spicer

Can defend a proven lie --

That leads but to disaster;

One shouldn't even try --

It's fish caught in a fry.

 

The recipe that Spicer

Follows in his venue

Before the White House press corps

Isn't even tenu-

Ous, nor on the menu.

 

He's caught in Donald's dicer,

Squeezed through little holes

In the bottom of his ricer,

And he is none the wiser

About what's in the bowls:

 

It looks and smells quite nasty,

And everybody knows

If pudding,  it's too hasty

And certainly not tasty.

One cannot hold one's nose

 

Long enough to lapp upp

A thimbleful of glopp

While Obama's there to tapp upp

The data in Donald's lapp-topp

And the corn that didn't popp.

 

 

TATTLE TALE

 

Tattletale, tattletale,

You have some news!

Run to the White House --

It's something they'll use!

 

Don't tell the committee

Of the House that you chair

Though they are the first folks

With whom you should share

 

These alternate facts

Through lips that are loose --

Trump will employ them

To make his own noose.

 

 

TRUMPSONG

 

Gonna wash Obamacare outa my hair!

Gonna wash Obamacare outa my hair!

Keep Obamacare? They wouldn't dare!

Here comes the vote -- oh, no! It's still there!

 

 

Rump-a-dump Trump,

Three oafs in a clump,

And who do you think they be?

Bannon and Putin

And, there's no disputin',

Trump himself up in a tree.

 

From MISS PUSSY'S PARLOR SONGS by Claudette McFang.