Burns Pastiche from 2018

ADDRESS TO A POTUS by Louise Ramsay

Fair fa your orange faketan face

Great chieftain o’ the human race

Aboon them a’ ye tak yer place

Paunch, tripe an’ tweet,

Weel are ye worthy o’ my grace

As lang’s a week.

Piers, Nigel, a’ your golden shower

Ye gather in your massive tower -

To satirise this mighty power

Would be atrocious.

Sic modesty!  Ne’er swaggering

Or braggadocious. 

The groaning snowflakes aye ye’ll irk

Wi yer plans for makin’ a things work

Fae’ firing staff ye’ll never shirk

Like Steve’s fake news,

Ye’ll flush them oot whe’er they lurk

An tak yer dues.

Ye are the brightest by a mile

Nae fire, nae fury and nae guile

The things you say are rarely vile

Mike Wolff is  bitter

And enviously views your style

And skill wi’ Twitter

Yer yellow hair’s sae fine and thick

On your smooth pate it lies sae slick

It’s natural colour - a great pick

For a young manny

Yer enemies would tak the mick

Except they cannae.

Yer foreign policy, sae wise

Ye challenge Kim and mock his size

World peace will clearly be the prize

For sic a line

As this: ‘Your war-heed isnae half

As big as mine is.’

Although you ne’er touch a dowd

O’ lovely ladies you draw a crowd

A wee bit gropy, maybe, and loud

(Though Harvey’s gropier)

But only beauties are allowed

In your Utopia.

Yer way wi women is weel famed

For pussy grabs, they’ll gae insane

Clapped wi a ‘medium’ nieve they’re tamed

And on their back …

At bedtime, aye a willing dame

An a Big Mac.

Though Jared spoke wi Russian spies

An’ aboot the election strategised

And Vladimir’s a great bunch of guys -

There’s been confusion.

In spite of a’ appearances,

There’s nae collusion. 

Your immigration policy

For international harmony

We’ll a’ feel like ane family

This is your goal.

Ye’ll mak’ sure that lot bide at hame

In their shit-hole.

Is there that owre his French Macron

Or Merkel, that wad fright a mon,

Or May scrabblin’ tae get Brexit done

Wi frantic fever

Look doon wi sneering spitefu’ scorn

On sic a leader?

Proud son o Lewis, twas in the runes,

Ye’d stabilise the Menie Dunes

An trample on the local loons

And Greens and Commies,

For a game of gowf wi a yer goons.

Ye trumped us dummies!

Your mental health is quite superb,

You never tak a pill or herb

In spite o’ whit they journo-perves

Say, - Its heinous!

The Congress and the Senate serve

A stable genius.