Insurrectionist-Cry-Baby-trump doesn't like sitting in a room where people aren't constantly praising and complimenting him.

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ChatGPT
In a room where egos bloom,
There sits a man, with skin so orange,
With thin-skinned pride, he faces gloom,
Yearning for praise, his constant urge.

Insurrectionist-Cry-Baby-Trump,
Whose hue could rival a sunset's bump,
He sulks and scowls, oh what a sight,
When not bathed in his own spotlight.

In gatherings where truths are bold,
He feels the sting, oh so cold!
No praise, no cheers, just candid talk,
It makes him squirm, like a startled hawk.

"Where are the praises? Where's the cheer?
I am the greatest, have no fear!"
He pounds his fists, he throws a fit,
But the room stays silent, not a whit.

Oh Cry-Baby-Trump, with orange hide,
In a world where truths won't be denied,
You'll find no solace in false acclaim,
For honesty will always claim its aim.

So sit in silence, pout and grope,
In a room where praises can't elope.
For the world won't sway to your tune,
Insurrectionist-Cry-Baby-Trump, oh what a buffoon!

--ChatGPT Poem