Thursday, April 6, 2017


(With apologies to Lerner and Loewe’s Camelot)
The Donald:


It's true! It's true! I've made it crystal clear.
I simply must be perfect all the year.

A law was made a distant moon ago here:
Your kids and their kin cannot get a lot.
But we don’t stop where legal limits show here
In Trump-a-lot.

Self-dealing is forbidden, you’ll remember
It all looks pretty sleazy, does it not?
But we don’t let it trouble a clan member
In Trump-a-lot.

Trump-a-lot! Trump-a-lot!
I know it sounds a bit bizarre,
But in Trump-a-lot, Trump-a-lot
That's how conditions are.

My critics bitch and moan from dawn ‘til sundown,
By eight, my tweets will nonetheless appear.
In short, there's simply not
A more congenial spot
For self-inflicted bumble-ing than here
In Trump-a-lot.

Trump-a-lot! Trump-a-lot!
I know it gives a person pause,
But in Trump-a-lot, Trump-a-lot
We screw the legal laws.

I really don’t know why I was elected,
But who cares while I get what can be got?
In short, there's simply not
A more congenial spot
For happy self-enrichment work then here
In Trump-a-lot.


Sir Pencealot:
C'est Moi

Music Here

Trump-a-lot! Trump-a-lot!
Near the Wabash I heard your call.
Trump-a-lot! Trump-a-lot!
And here am I to give my all.
I know in my soul you weren’t meant to be,
And how soon you go we shall see.

A veep of the Trump-a-lot should be convincible,
Believe where a less amoral man would fail.
Bleat a tweet no one else could make,
In defense of that aging rake,
Be the goat for that bloat of tiny-fingered male.
No matter the con, he ought to be unwinceable,
Alternative facts should be his daily fare.
But where in the world
Is there in the world
A flunky without compare?

C'est moi! C'est moi, I'm forced to admit.
'Tis I, I humbly reply.
That mortal who
These marvels can do,
C'est moi, c'est moi, 'tis I.
I've never lost
By aiming too low;
I'm simply the worst by far.
When facts are lost
'Tis always the same:
I’m far from where they are!
C'est moi! C'est moi! So adm'rably fit!
A Hoosier Boot-Licker unbound.
And here I stand, ambition untold,
Just waiting my turn, (he’s 70-old),
For surely I’m White House-bound!

The soul of a veep should be a thing remarkable,
His heart and his mind as dark as day-old poo.
With no will and no self-restraint
He for sure treasures every taint
That could easily draw a one-year stint or two.
To plot and and to scheme he ought to be resistible,
The ways of his flesh should offer no allure.
But where in the world
Is there in the world
A man so dateless for sure ?
(C'est moi!)

C'est moi! C'est moi, I blush to disclose.
I'm far too noble to lie.
That man in whom
These qualities bloom,
C'est moi, c'est moi, 'tis I.
I've never strayed
Or so folks believe;
In public I never will.
I only screw,
That old Bannon , Steve
The Far Right’s looney shill.
C'est moi! C'est moi!
The Pollsters have chose
To wait for Donnie to fail,
And here I stand, as pure as a pray'r,
Incredibly clean, with virtue to spare,
Unless we wind up in jail!
C'est moi!