pay not attention to the tan behind the curtain

The thatch befitting an orangutan
bizarrely grafted onto Donald's head
as artificial as the spray-can tan
morticians use to 'juvenate the dead
took flight as he embarked on AirForce One.
It wasn't engineered for such a test
a golfer's 'do, to amble, not to run
transforms to an abandoned raven's nest.
The bald-spot that he hides beneath that mop,
winks pinkly from a million TV screens
third buttock, brandished cockily  on top
what ought to be concealed within his jeans.
Potempkin coiffure, ginned up for the Press
pretends it's more, but all can see, it's less.

I try like Hell to hide that bald spot

A glimpse of candor, with that flash of pate
as Trump embarked on wind-swept AirForceOne
belies his fervent claim that his hair's great,
deflating pompadour so stiffly done.
The trademarked orange tonsure Bozo claimed
can be repurposed--for a license fee.
Orangutanish mop, by hairspray tamed,
that had been clownish, now's just parody.
A fragile ego, tied to thinning hair
and sycophants won't speak an honest word.
His Chief of Staff would have to grow a pair
to tell his boss that bouffant's so absurd.
A more secure man'd learn to wear a hat;
no sleight of comb can dignify this brat.

druggie

Finasteride preserves the Donald's hair
that long ago would have been gone on top
although his pate would look more honest, bare
without that rank orangutanish mop
unconscious he's a clown in others' eyes
Trump tells his mirror self he's looking great
his retinue's complicit in those lies
their greatest talent's to dissimulate
beneath his scalp, the side-effects are grim
the impotence is not the worst of it
emotional tsunamis pummel him
and judgement--that was weak--has gone to shit
a perilous dependence on this drug
to insulate his ego from a rug

contingency II

hair follicles' and sweat glands' fates are chained
the same progenitors make either cell
selecting better cooling for big brains
our ancestors got hairlessness as well
the best of mutants still must find a mate
and courtship choose the new morphology
bare flesh and taste for same cosegregate
if they'll produce a chance of progeny
most changes must be deleterious
if something viable has been our start
that most will die can't too much worry us
selection--not design--is Darwin's art
we culminate contingency's cascade
but in our image our own god is made