I’d like it to be Donald Trump, tasked by his father to collect rents, to bolster the family fortune, Donald’s wandering hand, reaching under a door, to collect a pay check or silent love of another, Bronx, Queens, dream baby, scream baby,
Scream baby! Where is your rent, to go out on the sidewalk, the sidewalk of New York, where you will be homeless, beneath neon lights of the afterglow, the perfect advertisement undertow, because I must go clubbing, with club foot, so slow chudding, janking, a fear monger, break your knees
Donald Trump, his bowel movements trembling, cannot go on to knees bending. He rips a riparian fart, into the cart, of Venezuela. The Venezuelan girls, all of a pearl situated on a beach most inviting, swim to the night, knowing Don’s soul, the guy’s soul so jaded, want to make him a worm, pussy denied, so never knowing. He had no youth, he had the duty of rent collection. It didn’t seem right– because it wasn’t right. It was dereliction.
Spam of Human Affection 
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