All power is fleeting, none of it will last
look at the dictators we have buried in the past,
those excutive orders will be shredded and torn
burning in a heap, upon the White House lawn,
America will rise, after you have gone
your name will be a curse, when its soul goes marching on,
images smashed, tinted rubble for foundation
trodden in the mud of a bruised but recovering nation