cat-fight!

The Stormy Daniels book is selling big
the dirt she's dishing doesn't hide in code.
No subtle ornaments adorn this pig;
Trump's genitals look like a wizened toad.
The reader burns to see what's coming next,
as each delusion's punctured, scene by scene.
There's only disappointment in the sex;
there's nothing in this guy that isn't mean.
Debating on his level's not an art
they teach at Princeton, or the finer schools.
His "eloquence" is that of a good fart:
all noise, without the substance of a stool.
McMaster's exposé's still years away.
But Stormy basks in sunshine, and makes hay.