We’re both New Yorkers, so I thought you might
understand my making time tonight
to take your bullshit by the horns, and write.
This city is America’s front porch.
Stop ogling my boobs; observe the torch –
the light I hold was meant to guide, not scorch.
The poem penned by Emma Lazarus
implies the huddled masses are a plus,
so, Donald, please stop saying 'them, say 'us'.
If you love liberty, don’t bellyache
that news within The New York Times is fake
while pouring globs of ketchup on your steak
or tweeting up a storm; for we’re beginning
to think you’re just an ass that Putin’s pinning –
you twist the facts so much, my head is spinning.
If you want love, love people, not the banks:
the poor will make us rich by joining ranks.
Let those who yearn to breathe free give us thanks,
and let them hate the Yankees, not the Yanks.
Yours Whether You Like It or Not,
Lady L.
P.S. Though made of copper, even I would smile
if, Donald, you were stranded on an isle:
perhaps we should trade places for a while.