Donald's Hair- A poem by Traci Burnam

Would you look at that thing on top of his head?
It's not really blonde or even quite red,

Reactive and wild it billows and blows,
Like the nuclear bomb threat, he's beginning to pose,

So messy and reckless he peacocks- no shame,
His hair, like a torch that turned wildfire- untamed.

I have to wonder if he planned it that way,
When he goes to the barber, just what does he say?

"Make it distinct! Like a big neon sign.
It should be striking, noteworthy, divine!"

Still, I just can't fathom- how that style came to be.
I can honestly tell you that it befuddles me.

There is one thing about Donald's hair to be said,
It's like a temperament gage set atop of his head.

Whatever that hair is doing today,
Blasts from his mouth, causing all sorts of dismay.

Oh, Donald, I beg you-- reconsider that style,
It seems your perception is based on denial,

Look in the mirror, I know it takes strength-
Your suit is a'muss and your style...well, it stinks,

Your "do" is a testament to your lack of self-care,
And those emotional outbursts prove you're not self-aware.

Dear Donald, I ask you to rethink that mane,
Go back to the barber -and please... come back sane.