I love you, Don. What can I say?
The way your sweet, orange-ish, blonde-ish, white-ish "hair" may sway.
The whispers of sweet nothings that make my day.
Your impossible walls; don't worry, they'll pay.
You think this is sarcasm, but do I play?
Nay.
Mr. Trump, I dream of the day you clench those burly hands to mine.
And I'd respond with, "Wow. Those are actually quite petite", as you kiss me blind.
You pull away leaving a ring of orange round my lips.
It's hard to say, but that wasn't a kiss.
It was a declaration of love to the highest degree.
Your words and pocketbook have captured me.
They call us enemies, they call us foes.
The one thing you don't know is that Bill knows.
I told him as payback, he told me you were stinky.
I told him "hey, at least he's better than Monica Lewinsky".
I know you will abuse me, like I want you to do.
Just because I wear a men's suit better than you.
It's hard to be with you, when we're always in a fight.
It's hard to love you, when you don't get my name right.
Call me baby, or darling, or love of your life.
Then maybe, just maybe, I can be your tenth wife.
