vogelsang

She hums a plaintive folk-song from her cage,
but wordlessly concedes he's in control.
The trophy bride to cushion Trump's old-age
too late discerns the peril to her soul.
Melania's kept fast the deal she struck
and shines like a gazelle among mere sows.
But Donald can't pretend to give a fuck;
what fool would think he'd keep his wedding vows?
Her friends enjoy the caviar, and quiche,
 but all she gets is cheeseburgers, and fries.
Trump's palate isn't even nouveau riche.
And his beer-gut's now presidential-size.
She'll see her Barron comes of age, of course,
but counts the nights until Trump's third divorce.