The Donald has been casting his net farther afield these days– overseas in the highlands of Scotland. Trump is hoping to acquire land for his newest,”best golf course in the world”. Problem is, the locals don’t take too kindly to strangers – even if they have pots of money. In this poem, I’ve tried to get in the heads of all concerned and even dipped into Shakespeare’s mind for a measure.
Trump, “The Donald’s” on a quest
His new golf-course will be best;
Only thing that’s in his path,
Man of Scotland and his wrath.
Didn’t help Trump said, unjust,
Forbes’s land raised his disgust;
Farmer, Michael can’t be bought;
Now the Donald’s truly caught.
His heart’s set on Balmedie,
But the Heritage Agency,
Sides with Forbes and pressure group;
Trump may have to fly the coop,
‘Less he pulls Ace from his sleeve–
Ancestry, if we believe;
Mary, of the MacLeod clan
Was his mother—that’s his plan–
Win the heart and mind of Scot;
Macbeth’s lady would be hot,
If she knew that she’d been trumped,
By such scheme–she merely bumped
Duncan off–who blocked her way
Donald’s fending off a fray;
Hopes the Scottish Enterprise
Will permit and see he’s wise.
Dunes are blowing off, says Don,
To The Guardian — it’s no con;
Stabilize, will Donald’s course,
Still against the local force.
Critics claim land’s old and rare;
Habitat deserves their care;
Don’s hope lies with tourist trap,
Else his scheme he’ll have to scrap.
Such a shame to see it go–
Nae “Loch Vegas” towers, “Och, no!”
Kathleen Mortensen © 2007