I don’t think he is thinking straight
His syrup’s made him hottish
And that can happen in the sun
To men whose genes are Scottish

He can’t abide these immigrants
Syrian or others
Some of them are children
And they’re coming with their Mothers

He says that he would send them back
If he gets into power
Which ill behoves a candidate
Who lives atop a tower

I wonder if he’d do the same
With Mexicans or Greek’uns
Or men whose ancestors were slaves
Or, perhaps, Mohicans?