Child care is child care
"Child care is child care" and “You have to have
it"
— Donald Trump at the Economic Club of New York City (2024)
This poem's about an important issue.
Child care is child care — what have you?
The numbers, like balloons, big … blown-up big,
but not as big as the taxes he'll rig.
$$ But I think
when you talk about …
Foreign nations, they'll pay their share,
sending products floating in air.
But soon they'll see, and they'll comply,
like balloons bursting up in the sky.
$$ But when you
talk about those numbers, …
Child care, we need it, Mr. Trump's aware,
but bigger numbers fill up the air.
With waste and fraud flying away,
the deficits, he claims, will shrink one day.
$$ Those numbers
are so much bigger than any numbers …
In summary, Trump's plan is grand,
floating savings across the land.
No deficits soon, we'll be la, la, la.
Thanks to foreign taxes and Trump's MAGA!
Notes:
•
Lines beginning with “$$” are Trump’s words. Not
necessary to read with the poem.
•
Here are more complete quotes:
•
$$ It’s a very important issue. But I think
when you talk about the kind of numbers that I’m talking about, that — because
— child care is child care ... It’s something, you have to have it in this
country. You have to have it.
•
$$ But when you talk about those numbers,
compared to the kind of numbers that I’m talking about by taxing foreign
nations at levels that they’re not used to, but they’ll get used to it very
quickly, and it’s not going to stop them from doing business with us, but
they’ll have a very substantial tax when they send product into our country.
•
$$ Those numbers are so much bigger than any
numbers that we’re talking about, including child care, that it’s going to take
care. We’re going to have — I look forward to having no deficits within a
fairly short period of time, coupled with the reductions that I told you about
on waste and fraud and all of the other things that are going on in our
country.
Watching the Squirrels when it is Spring Again
We tell them, think of treasure.
Acorns folded into the earth,
small offerings beneath changing seasons.
They dart, paws digging wildly,
a little thrill in each clawful of earth,
hoping for something better.
But they only find splinters,
last year's leftovers, cracked shells,
the taste of recycled promises:
hard-scrabble, last season's labor.
They blink, flick their tails,
settle back into the dirt, nibbling
without a second thought.
A song of hands and claws, making do.
For them, it doesn't matter
who manages this park or whatever,
it's the same old (c)ity space.
