On the reality show in the While House –

(To the tune of “My Guy,” by Smokey Robinson as recorded by Mary Wells)

I won the starring role
Now I’ve taken control
It’s my show.
Don’t hand me no script
Cause I’ll won’t be tight-lipped
It’s my show.
I’m taking no advice from no well-read advisor
Who may be educated, ‘cause I know I’m wiser.
I’m telling you where it’s at
I wear the bosses hat
It’s my show.

Better not disagree
Never contradict me
It’s my show.
There’s an ever growing pile
Those I’ve fired with a smile
It’s my show.
I suppose I should govern while the world’s overheating
Give the job my attention but I’m too busy tweeting.
I’ve told you from the start
I’m a showman at heart
It’s my show.

If you ask for my opinion
How my presidency rates?
I’ll tell you It’s the greatest one
Of these United States
If you’ve asked for my opinions
‘Bout the world or country
By now you know  my answers
Ramble on about me.

No one in DC
Can take the spotlight off me
It’s my show.
I can threaten a war
My Nielsen Ratings will soar
It’s my show
Fox is filling up my head with combustible news
I’m wearing silk pajamas while they’re warping my views
I feel just like a King
Just doing my thing
It’s my show.


Lyric © by Robert S. Steinberg, Esquire
All rights reserved


(To the tune of “I’ve Got a Crush on You,” by George & Ira Gershwin)

Too bad the misled voters
For Trump still are his doters
They prize, his beady eyes.

They fawn over his squealing
Don’t realize he’s stealing
Their dreams, with all his schemes.

I’m no fancier of his gigantic id.
Thought he’d never get elected, but he did
You know I see right through him
And simply must say to him
My dear old Mister Trump

I’ve got some news for you Mister Trump
People you abuse know, “You’re a chump”.
Who’s never had one emotion
That isn’t fueled by vain self-devotion.

Who can’t see what’s obvious.
Why this silly tweeting, blunderbuss?
The world is no garbage dump
For all your brainless thoughts
My dear Mister Trump.

Lyric © By Robert S. Steinberg, Esquire
All rights reserved


(To the tune of The Best is Yet to Come, by Shannon Greene and Todd N. Terry)

Out of the candidates, we’ve selected the rump.
The words stick in my throat saying President Trump
And now I fear, right here, the worst is yet to come

The worst is yet to come, that’s becoming quite clear
I’m so afraid the harm will be more than I fear

Issuing orders every day.
Brewing un-needed fights.
Closing our borders come what may.
Stepping on precious rights.

The worst is yet to come, cloaked the devil arrives
The worst is yet to come, pray the country survives.

Pray this land survives
He’s certain to go too far.
We used to care about lives.
Let’s not forget who we are.

The worst is yet to come, meaner than it now seems.
The worst is yet to come, out to steal your dreams.

Lyric © 2017 by Robert S. Steinberg, Esq.
All rights reserved


(To the tune of “Little Girl Blue,” by Richard Rodgers and Lorenz Hart)


When his campaign began
I thought it was all in fun.
Another game to stoke his name
To my chagrin he’s won
And nothing feels quite the same
Dems sit and wonder who’s to blame.
Worry reigns over DC
Worry raindrops fall on me


I sit here and feel the raindrops
Storm clouds have sent
Feeling all spent.
Why am I feeling like the raindrops?
Trump will be president.

I sit here and mourn the future
Under this gent
Who’ll not repent
Why do I worry o’er the future?
Trump will be president.


What can we do?
What can this man do to us?
Have you read Sinclair Lewis?
Threats He wrote of should clue us.
Not to trust, this con man
We’ll soon call
President Trump.

Reprise Bridge

Why feel so glum?
Although this is a bummer
He’s winter’s cold harsh Drummer
In four-year’s-time may come a
Summer, wise man
To dethrone
President Trump.

Lyric © by Robert S. Steinberg, Esquire
All rights reserved


(To the tune of “Teenager in Love,” by Doc Pomus and Mort Shuman as recorded by Dion and the Belmonts in 1959).

Pence is conservative too
Sure glad he’s by my side.
Though he will have to live through
My ego-Trumping tide.
I’ve mush for brains and I lack common sense.
I’m just a Putz, that’s why I needed Pence.

Pence is against abortion.
But not against the gun.
Explaining with contortions
Why he’s the lucky one.
I’ve mush for brains, and I lack common sense.
I’m just a Putz, that’s why I needed Pence.

I’m disconnected
Pence is accepted
By the GOP.

And so he’s been selected
To serve as my VP
And should I get elected
Then he can serve me tea.
I’ve mush for brains, and I lack common sense.
I’m just a Putz, that’s why I needed Pence.

Pence is from Indiana.
The Midwest, not the South.
I slip on a banana
With each word from my mouth.
The GOP is hesitant and tense
Cause I’m a Putz, that’s why I needed Pence.

Lyric Copyright 2016 by Robert S. Steinberg, Esquire
All rights reserved


(To the tune of, Everything’s Coming up Roses,” by Julie Styne and Stephen Sondheim, from 1959 Broadway Show “Gypsy”)

Dash for cash, bash and trash.
Dough from Lobbyists piles up a stash.
Shift the blame, play the game.
People, nothing here’s smelling like roses

Take your turn, burn the Bern.
Give one tilting at windmills a turn.
Clinton’s scowls, sag her jowls.
People nothing here’s smelling like roses.

Whose Foundation’s
cozy with Saudis and such?
Wall Street dollars
for speeches, and nobody hollers?

Bernie’s right, too much might
for the big wigs and deals in the night.
Anecdote? Cast your vote.
People, nothing here’s smelling like roses.

Turn to Trump? He’s a chump.
But this GOP gaggle he’ll thump.
Rubio? What a show.
Want to Cruz?  Hit the booze.
A ballot with them on it makes me cuss.
And people, nothing here’s smelling like roses to any of us.

Lyric © 2016 by Robert S. Steinberg, Esquire
All rights reserved


(To the tune of “You’re the Top,” by Cole Porter)

He’s the Trump!
He’s the plastered hairdo.
He’s the Trump!
And he’s all hot air too.
He’s the jerk who rants, bout immigrants, down south.
Says they’re either rapists or terrorists. He’s
the biggest mouth!

He’s the Trump!
Thinks he’s presidential.
What a chump!
He’s so non-essential.
We could do without, his ego-touting stump.
But we’ll have to suffer through it.
He’s the Trump!

He’s the Trump!
Out to start a schism.
He’s the Trump!
Buys his own Trump-ism.
Called an ego-maniac, a yak, a grump.
Still you can’t escape this Donald.
He’s the Trump!

Lyric © 2015 by Robert S. Steinberg, Esquire

All rights reserved