Scene: John Cooper Clarke and Donald Trump are seated on a gaudy gold set, resembling a Vegas lounge. The audience buzzes with anticipation.
Trump: (gesturing widely) "You know, John, they say I’m the best poet there is. Tremendous with words. I know words. All the best words. Better than anybody!"
JCC: (raising an eyebrow, deadpan)
"Aye, mate, you’ve got all the best words—shame you string 'em together like tangled fairy lights."
Trump: (leaning in, unfazed)
"Wrong. People love my words. I’ve written books! Big books! Bestsellers! You know, I think poetry needs a guy like me. Strong. Winning. Inspirational!"
JCC: (pulling a face, lighting a cigarette)
"Poetry, Donnie? Yours’d read like IKEA instructions written by a drunken parrot."
Trump: (offended, but smiling)
"People say I’m very poetic. The best metaphors. Beautiful. Like, when I talk about walls—what’s more poetic than that? A big, beautiful wall!"
JCC:
"Aye, a wall’s poetic alright—keeps the critics out, the sycophants in, and the echo’s top-notch for shouting rubbish at yourself."
Trump: (interrupting)
"I’ve got millions—millions!—of fans who love what I say. What’s your audience, huh? A bunch of kids in black shirts snapping their fingers in a basement?"
JCC:
"Better a finger snap than a claptrack, pal. At least my audience’s got a pulse and half a brain cell to rub together."
Trump:
"You’re all talk! You’d never win anything in my world. I’ve got trophies, beauty pageants, golf courses!"
JCC:
"Congrats, mate. You’ve collected more useless trinkets than a magpie on meth."
Trump: (trying to regain control)
"Look, I respect you, John. But you’ve got to admit—I’m a genius. Stable genius."
JCC:
"Stable, you say? Aye, you’re fit for a stable alright. Just mind the shovel."
Audience erupts into laughter. Trump gestures for order, but JCC smirks and leans back, clearly enjoying the chaos.
