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Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the lord;
He’s been drinking from the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;
He hath loosed the awful lightning of his oft recanted word:
His truth is marching on.

He has sounded forth the trumpet that can never call retreat;
He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment-seat;
Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer with a very nasty tweet!
The country marches on on.

He is grabbing at the pussies that are powerless to fight.
‘Cuz he’s a star they let him and he thinks that makes it right.
Nothing makes him shiver, or keeps him up at night.
His fame keeps marching on.

He is rising wreathed in glory with a wink, a nudge, a wave,
Shouting platitudes to wisdom, and insults to the brave.
The poor shall be his footstool, and the middle class his slave.
His business marches on.

Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
The Donald marches on!