He wrote The Art of Deal, or so they claim, A television mogul, flameless smoke. Yet for his deeds he shoulders little blame, A candidate I truly thought a joke. Better or worse, the man was elected, Quoth he: “I soon shall bring the world to peace.” No Nobel Prize—his name was not selected, And so that promise quietly did cease. The talks began; a deal to soon be made, The U.S. urged Iran to halt its use. While statesmen spoke, the fragile faith did fade, A Gríma whispered softly, “J’accuse.” The Red Crescent struck—a target they smashed; The people cry in waves—Tehran in ash.