There once was a loudmouth named Trump
Who swore foreign wars were all chump.
“Regime change is trash!
Just burn it for cash!”
Then promptly went thumping the drum.
In ’24 on the stump he declared,
“No new wars! I’m the peace guy,” he blared.
“If Kamala Harris wins,
She’ll draft all your twins
For a hellhole you’ve never been spared!”
A year and some loose change thereafter,
The peace shtick collapsed into laughter.
He’s bombing Iran—
For “freedom,” because he can—
While lighting the region with napalm and bluster.
Over at The New York Times’ gray tower,
Peter Baker clocked the whiplash of power:
“What legacy’s this?
Not the peace-branding bliss—
More ‘shock-and-awe’ cosplay than flower.”
He lusts for the Nobel Peace Prize shine,
Though the optics reek strongly of brine.
If Stockholm won’t call,
He’ll just level it all—
And say, “See? World peace—thanks to mine.”
When heat from Jeffrey Epstein’s files starts to rise,
And smoke curls uncomfortably nigh,
What better distraction
Than live war-room action?
“Major combat!”—look there, not at I.
His biographer Michael Wolff sighed,
“It’s a stew of half-facts he’s applied.
Some history skimmed,
Some vengeance half-whimmed—
An itch with a missile for pride.”
Even Marjorie Taylor Greene blinked at the blast,
While Tucker Carlson looked aghast.
Alex Jones went pale,
Rand Paul wailed—
When the freak show thinks “too far,” that’s fast.
His base used to pivot on cue,
Like windsocks in red, white, and blue.
But maybe this time
They’ll clock the damn crime—
And ask who the hell profits—who?
© 2026 Glen Farber. All Rights Reserved.
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