At the last presser, how the slugs abase
Themselves before the idol they adore.
Yes, funny ears may flank his smirking face—
But punks pledge adulation evermore.
Every guy there becomes a lipsticked whore
Flashing, in fishnet stockings, loads of thigh.
And there is more submission yet in store:
Not one cunt in the room is close to dry.
Questions boil down to: “Love you! Hi, hi, hi!”
They ask him to evaluate his own
Transcendent greatness. When he does, they sigh.
Out in the viewing audience, I groan.
Yet I rejoice – to know the genre’s past.
This presidential love fest is his last!