There’s a White House of loot-store freaks
Appalling Reich of Trunt
It’ll be the ruin of freedoms we enjoy
Freaks, Trogs, slime, dolts and c**ts

Trunt’s father was a traitor
Creamed for Aryan dreams
That mobster was a grafting scam
Down he passed rat genes

He also passed down the grafting seed
Implanted in his spawn mutt
Skank and loathsome slime equal in crime
To his paternal slut

These monsters’ hellish children
Rotten crew of crime-spree scum
They spend their lives in grifts and teachery
Beats his spouse, the rye-fueled drunk

Got a bunch of running cank’ sores
Got a dunce with worm-snack brain
They’ve got Vlad’s back, this stooge-whore team
Don’t care for freedom’s reign

There are sick clowns, an ooze-sore team
The galling Reich of Trunt
It is filled with sick loons, like Oaf Creatures, Clown Noise
It’s off, the hope, they’re bumped