Planet Nine
Out there in the wastes of space
There waits a giant hulk
A monster with a hidden face
A creature full of bulk
It seems a most disturbing case
Of preternatural sulk
It hovers on the edge of world
A lonely, empty sphere
That keeps its vicious fingers curled
And rules itself with fear
Where other planets always whirled
It trembles, insincere
The airless desert closes in
Upon its hollow heart
Perhaps it has a firing pin
Perhaps a bonaparte
Perhaps it is a deadly sin
Perhaps a feeble fart
And there it waits, as vacuous
As any empty sump
And puts the fat in fatuous
A poor galactic frump
Its logic vague, anfractuous
I name this planet Trump
Click here for a Washington Post article
Click here for a Guardian article (Planet Nine)
