Lyrics

(This song was written from the imagined perspective of the journalist Trump said, "quiet piggy" to.)

You looked me dead in the eye and said “Quiet, Piggy.”
Like I’m some fuckin’ farm animal you get to shut up.
Motherfucker, I’m a goddamn journalist.

You’re a walking sexual assault lawsuit with a comb-over.
You really thought that little pig shit would work on me?
Boy, I’ve heard you call women dogs, horses, fat pigs, disgusting —
and I still showed up to work.

You can’t shame me.
You already used up all the shame on yourself.
Squeal, pig, squeal, you nasty fuck.
Squeal for every woman you grabbed, paid off, lied about, and called a liar.
Squeal for Stormy, squeal for E. Jean, squeal for the twenty-six others you said were too ugly to rape.
Squeal while I laugh, you bankrupt, fake tanned clown.

This little piggy’s got a pen, a camera, and a memory like a steel trap.
And I ain’t shuttin’ up till you’re squealin’ in a cage.

Remember Jessica Leeds? You groped her on a plane like it was your goddamn right.
Remember Kristin Anderson? You slid your hand up her skirt in a nightclub while Melania was pregnant?
You did that shit like it was Tuesday.

And when we spoke up you called us crazy, liars, nasty, not hot enough.
You sad, tiny-dicked little bully.
You only feel big when you’re making women feel small.

Guess what, asshole — we’re fucking huge now.
You don’t get to call me piggy.
You’re the one who’s been wallowing in pussy your whole life —
grabbing it, paying it to shut up, bragging about it on tape.
You’re the pig.
You’re the whole goddamn sty.
And we’re the slaughterhouse comin’ for you.

SQUEAL, PIG, SQUEAL, YOU FUCKING DISGRACE!
Squeal for every dressing room you barged into,
every teenager you eyed at your creepy pageants,
every wife you cheated on while she was home with your baby.
Squeal while we dance on your political grave.
I’m not your piggy, Don.
I’m the goddamn butcher.
And I brought friends.

Next question, motherfucker.
Try “quiet” again.
I fucking dare you.