Dressed up as a double, for dear old dad.
Hunter was enjoying it, such s  a good lad.
He'd learned to act stupid, no problem there.
Like father, like son, the DNA shared.
Kept in the cellar, he looked like a ghoul.
White as a maggot, chin dripping gruel.
Instead of Ritilin, he was shooting cocaine.
High on stupidity, he was feeling no pain.
A pile of meth up his nose, he was ready to go.
Ready for work, to put on a show.
It was amazing, how he mimicked his Pa.
No one ever knew, just what they saw.
The pressers were mysteries, one day Joe seems fine.
The next day he has trouble reading his lines.
One day his complexion is white as a ghost.
The next day it's ruddy, like slightly burned toast.
He reads a script on the phone, talking to Putin.
Coming off like a cowboy, rootin' and tootin'.
They work good together, two peas in a pod.
Insane megalomaniacs, who think they are Gods.
In the basement each night, they share a good laugh.
No one the wiser, but Jill and the staff.
What though would happen, if the truth outs.
An MSM snow job, without a doubt.
D.L. Crockett -- 2/6/22