(Verse 1)
The sun rose red on the Pacific wide,
A fishing boat sailed, with secrets inside.
“Heave ho, me lads, and mind the sweet cargo!”
Cried Captain Salty, with a knowing wink and a holler-go.
They thought they were sly, beneath the morning’s gleam,
But unseen eyes were watching, from a distant, digital dream.
(Chorus)
Heave ho, me lads, the drone’s in the sky!
A Hellfire’s a-coming, you’d best learn to fly!
From Mar-a-Lago, the order was grand,
Another “big win” for the Commander’s hand!
(Verse 2)
In a room full of screens, with flags all unfurled,
Sat President Donnie, king of his world.
“Look at that vessel! It’s laden with… goods!”
He bellowed with glee, in his finest of moods.
“They’re bringing the bad stuff, they’re bringing the spice!
A Hellfire will teach ’em to think more than twice!”
(Chorus)
Heave ho, me lads, the drone’s in the sky!
A Hellfire’s a-coming, you’d best learn to fly!
From Mar-a-Lago, the order was grand,
Another “big win” for the Commander’s hand!
(Verse 3)
The missile descended, a streak in the blue,
The captain cried, “Swim! For me and for you!”
Bags flew in the air, a white, powdery spray,
As sailors abandoned their ship on that day.
“Another one blown up! Tremendous! So great!”
Trump crowed, “They all know their inevitable fate!”
(Chorus)
Heave ho, me lads, the drone’s in the sky!
A Hellfire’s a-coming, you’d best learn to fly!
From Mar-a-Lago, the order was grand,
Another “big win” for the Commander’s hand!
(Verse 4)
One hundred and seven, the tally now grew,
Of those who discovered the Pacific’s cold dew.
The evidence? Sparse, or perhaps quite unseen,
But the missile was launched, and the ocean was clean.
So next time you’re sailing, with whatever you’ve got,
Remember the drone, and the Donald’s hot shot!
(Chorus)
Heave ho, me lads, the drone’s in the sky!
A Hellfire’s a-coming, you’d best learn to fly!
From Mar-a-Lago, the order was grand,
Another “big win” for the Commander’s hand!
Donnie’s Boom-Boom Boat Bash
The sun was high over the Eastern Pacific, glinting off the waves and the suspicious amount of “baking supplies” stacked on the deck of a rickety trawler. Captain “Fast-Paddle” Phil was just about to light a celebratory cigar when a shadow crossed the sun. It wasn’t a cloud. It was a Reaper drone, and it was carrying a very expensive message.
Thousands of miles away, in a room filled with gold-leaf trim and the faint scent of hairspray and victory, the 47th President leaned forward. He wasn’t looking at spreadsheets or diplomatic cables. He was looking at a high-definition feed of Phil’s boat.
“Look at that boat,” Trump whispered, a slow grin spreading across his face. “It’s a disaster. A total disaster. Look at the paint job. Terrible. If you’re going to smuggle, you have to have style. These people? No style.”
An admiral cleared his throat. “Sir, Southern Command is ready. We suspect narco-trafficking. We don’t have the paperwork yet, but—”
“I don’t need paperwork! I have eyes! Look at those bags! That’s not flour. That’s the bad stuff. The big bad stuff,” Trump interrupted, his finger hovering over a button that looked suspiciously like the one he used to order Diet Cokes. “You know what would be a beautiful thing? A real firework. A maritime firework. The likes of which the world has never seen.”
Back on the water, Phil looked up. “Is that a bird?”
“YO HO HO! HERE COMES A HELLFIRE!” Trump shouted in the Situation Room, finally slamming his hand down. He didn’t just push the button; he gave it a little jazz-hands flourish.
On the screen, a streak of light turned the trawler into a glorious orange fireball.
“BOOM!” Trump giggled, clapping his hands together. “Did you see that? Yuge! That was a 10 out of 10 explosion. Maybe an 11. People are saying it’s the best strike in the history of strikes.”
On the Pacific, Phil and his remaining crew were currently performing the “Panic-Stricken Paddle.”
JUMP, JUMP, JUMP! They hit the water like Olympic divers who had completely forgotten the form. SWIM, SWIM, SWIM! Phil did a backstroke so fast he could have qualified for the summer games, all while a stray bag of “flour” floated past his head.
“Thirty boats!” Trump cheered, leaning back and taking a long sip of soda. “Thirty! That’s a round number. A beautiful number. We’re winning so much, the fish are probably getting tired of winning. They’re swimming away! Look at them go!”
He watched the loop of the explosion one more time, his shoulders shaking with a quiet, mischievous chuckle. “Next time, tell them to get a bigger boat. It makes a better splash.”
The boat was gone, replaced by a giant, charcoal-scented jacuzzi. Captain Phil and his first mate, “Lefty” Larry, were currently bobbing in the swells, surrounded by floating splinters and several waterproof bags of “highly suspicious white powder.”
Phil: (Spitting out a mouthful of salt water) “Well, Larry. On the bright side, the hull definitely didn’t need that new coat of paint I was planning.”
Larry: (Hyperventilating while clutching a floating seat cushion) “Phil! A missile! A literal missile! Since when does the Coast Guard lead with a Hellfire?! Usually, they just wave a megaphone and ask for our registration!”
Phil: “It’s the new ‘Customer Service’ initiative from D.C., Larry. Very efficient. Very high energy. No paperwork involved.”
Larry: “JUMP, JUMP, JUMP, you said! SWIM, SWIM, SWIM, you said! I’m doing a doggy-paddle in the middle of the Pacific, and I’m pretty sure I just saw a drone wink at me!”
Phil: “That’s not a drone winking, that’s just the President giggling from four thousand miles away. I can almost hear it over the waves. ‘Heh heh… big splash… yuge.’“
Larry: “What do we do now? We’re 200 miles from shore and my only flotation device is this bag of… uh… ‘Premium Baking Soda’!”
Phil: “Simple. We start swimming. If we move fast enough, maybe he’ll think we’re dolphins and leave us alone. Do a flip, Larry! Give him a show! Maybe he’ll give us a 10 for style!”
Larry: “I’m not doing a flip! I’m doing the ‘Please Don’t Blow Up My Left Foot’ crawl! Look! There goes boat number thirty! We’re a milestone, Phil! We’re a statistic!”
Phil: “And what a beautiful statistic we are. The most beautiful statistic in the history of statistics. Now keep paddling, Larry. If we reach land by Tuesday, I’ll buy you a taco. But no white powder on it. I’m over it.”
Larry: “Swim, swim, swim… I hate this reality show.”
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