The Great American No-Show
Happy Birthday, Mr. President
An event planned on the National Mall tied to celebrating our nation’s 250th birthday, originally featured several entertainers. However, many pulled out, including Martina McBride and Bret Michaels, after they felt misled, saying the event was more politically aligned with Donald Trump than they expected.
Trump responded by calling the artists boring and is now building a monstrosity of a stage on the White House lawn for a
UFC match. Politics is downstream of culture and Trump is losing the culture. Here’s some coverage of this embarrasement:
This version is in the style of 1980s-era Minneapolis funk, in a nod to Morris Day and The Time, who said NO to Trump’s self-aggrandizement.
As always, scroll down for alternate genres (I tried to create a version in the musical style of each of the artists/bands that said No Freaking Thanks to Trump).
Lyrics
First Martina said, “Nah, this ain’t my vibe,”
Bret took his bandana, said, “Not my tribe.”
The Commodores sailed off, Young MC dropped the mic,
The party turned ghostly, no one’s up for the hike.
Morris Day checked his watch, said, “I’m outta time,”
Fab said, “Not faking this,” left the conga line.
Bret’s “Poison” was mild next to the scene,
No encore for Trump, they all fled the scheme.
Happy birthday, Mr. President, but the stage is kinda bare,
Bret took his “Poison” and the Commodores aren’t there.
You called a fair, a festival, a patriotic spree,
But it’s just you and that big empty house on TV.
Oh, the balloons floated off, the band packed their gear,
Left Trump shouting in silence, “It’s my year, it’s my year!”
But if no one will sing, he’ll still make it grand,
Turn the lawn to a ring, he’s got fists on demand.
When the last “no” came, he threw down his red hat,
Said, “No birthday parade? Well, imagine that!”
Scrapped the whole party, the tantrum was grand,
Now the White House lawn’s a cage fight stand.
Happy birthday, Mr. President, but the cake’s just gone stale,
No band, no parade, just a fight club tale.
You called a fair, a festival, a patriotic spree,
But now it’s UFC on your birthday marquee.
So blow out the candles, the fight’s on at nine,
A birthday to remember, though not quite divine.