Given new life’s a guy who near Milan did die,
that’s Il Duce.
A neo-Mussoline amid many a whine,
fat Il Duce.
Here’s the thing: Gotta kiss his ring. . .go from duke to king;
with his lingo, a yeller.
Card he’ll play: Races stay away, place ain’t yours today.
He’s a way errant fella.

Constitution ain’t cool; it’s gonna change in the rule
of Il Duce.
Suppress press and defeat all those who do not
greet him with love.
He’s a walking bad dream—no, a nightmare,
this screamer of “yuge” way.
Dupes can’t see: His rants, tweets have great hate, are replete
with Il Duce.

Resurrected’s a guy who was destined to die,
that’s Il Duce.
A neo-Mussoline for which too many pine,
scam Il Duce.
That star thing needs revisioning: a provisioning
of crescent moons bright yellow.
Stay away, all who five times pray and all named Jose. . .
every brown gal and fellow.

With the truth he has dueled, yet many rubes he has fooled,
that’s Il Duce.
(He’s gonna go “old school” of Medieval and cruel,
that’s Il Duce).
Suppress all who’d dare bleat, “He’s a cheat.” And his tweets
they don’t love.
He’s a walking bad dream—no, a nightmare
who schemes with sleaze cadres.
Tools has he who blindly follow, ’cause they can’t see:
Neo-Duce!