An Irish Airman Foresees His Death by Donald J. Trump

By | 1 May 2020

There’s this poem I read. I love poems. Really
love them. I should put out a book of my own
poems. It’d be very good. A very big seller.
So this poem’s about some air force pilot. Irish.
Says he knows he’ll be shot down somewhere
in the clouds then bitches about how he doesn’t
hate his enemies. Not too crazy about his own
team either. Only cares about the poor people
from his god-forsaken town. The poor people.
Give me a break. Let me just say, some of my
best friends are Irish. Very best friends. Very
close. They love me over there. This jerk-off goes
on about ‘some lonely impulse of delight’ making
him be a pilot. Sad. Very sad. Pathetic. Any one
of twenty top models I could have arranged for him.
In a minute. Soon sort out his impulses. The pilot
guy’s got a thing about balance. He’s got to balance
everything. And then, get this, he says it’s all ‘a waste
of breath’. Waste of breath. I could have told him that
before he got started. There’s a place for these losers.
It’s called Mars. There is no way this man would ever
be allowed into our armed forces. No way. I would
personally make sure of it. We got the best men
in the world right here. They can’t do enough for me.
Tremendously loyal.

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