Trump planned a grand arch in D.C.,  
That would block famous sights one could see.  
Though the Park Service backed it,  
Preservationists attacked it—  
An arch-enemy of scenery.

In DC they pitched a big arch,
To tower o'er monuments' march;
Said the park folks, "Agreed,
Those sightlines recede,"
A monu-mental miscue, archly off-arch.

There once was a builder so grand,
Who stacked debts like high-rises planned;
He pleaded to fraud,
Faced the justice squad—
Now he’s Ever-grounded for life, by command.

At forty, that album called Graceland,
Still grooves like a world-spanning jam band;
It bridged troubled borders,
But tangled with boycott orders—
You can call me Al-ternative, grand.

There once was a shield called TPS,
A buffer from quake-driven stress;
But DHS flipped the switch,
now the timeline's a glitch—
Leaving Haitians on thin ICE, no less.

A Cessna from Pisco took flight,
To see Nazca’s lines from a height;
But fate took them offline,
In dust, not the skyline—
Thirteen lost, as lines of inquiry seek light.

At a Rio AIDS meet came a flap,
When a US slide showed a scrambled map;
Every nation misnamed,
Left even Atlas ashamed;
They really put the err on the map.

There once was a search giant on high,
Debugging the mozzies that fly;
It floods them with males,
so egg-making fails,
Australia may test it—404 bites, goodbye.

A Capitol ref saw the play,
as Fifa dribbled big deals in the fray.
“If free kicks mean fees
and smash-and-grab sprees,
we’ll blow the whistle—probe on the way.”