(Or, Why Isn’t Orange the New Black?)
How great am I? As great as one can be.
So why do they admire him, not me?
The phony press keeps saying he’s got class,
Implying I’m a blimp-like bag of gas.
They say he’s eloquent and dryly funny—
Although, in fact, I’ve got a lot more money.
I’ve tried to sign his legacy away.
Why can’t they see his feet are made of clay?
Why is it that affection for him lingers
While they feel free to ridicule my fingers?
Why can’t they recognize that I’m their ruler?
They say he’s cool. Believe me, I am cooler.
They’re on his side whatever they compare.
No fair! No fair! No fair! No fair! No fair!