Gilty

The penthouse of Donald J. Trump
Has pillows quite plump for your rump
     But it’s filled to the hilt
     With the wrong type of gilt
Which is why I’ve been stuck in a slump.

If the guilt I’d prefer were displayed
Then I wouldn’t feel quite so betrayed
     But the sparkle of gold
     Even fake, I am told,
Is sufficient, at times, to persuade.

In the White House, perhaps we’ll be graced
With some glitz in Melania’s taste
     And there’ll be no debate
     Once America’s great
All that gilt will be warmly embraced.