Donald at Debate – a poem
The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the GOP that night.
The polls were all against them, and minorities in flight.
And when Christie got indicted, and Ailles was caught hands down,
What once seemed just a nasty smirk became a sullen frown.
But Christie pled “Not Guilty!” and Ailles got forty mil,
And the party stalwarts dared to think: “We just might win this still!
“If only Donald gets a shot at Hillary in debate
He’ll nail her on her emails and of course Benghazigate!”
Then from that saddened little group went up a joyous shout
It twittered, facebooked, tumblrd, almost internetted out,
For someone somewhere finally had set the longed-for date
And The Donald, mighty Donald, was advancing to debate.
There was ease in Donald’s manner as he stood behind the stand,
Defiance in his bearing as he clenched his tiny hand.
“Destruction comes,” his brow announced, “both terrible and swift!
“I’ll grind her bones to make my bread!” the Donald sniffed. And sniffed.
And now the softball question comes whistling through the air:
“You got a jobs plan, Donald? Anything you’d like to share?”
But by the mighty intellect the ball unanswered sped—
He’s never thought about jobs much. “Strike one,” the umpire said.
“Kill him! Kill the umpire!” shouted someone from the stand,
The Donald smiled quite happily and waved his little hand.
“I’ll pay your bills, don’t worry,” he encouragingly said.
“There was a time when dudes like that were carried out here dead.”
And now the Nato question, like a missile from the blue,
But still he had no answer, so the umpire said, “Strike two!”
“Fraud!” yelled the maddened thousands, and the echo answered, “Fraud.”
But one scornful look from Donald and the audience was awed.
The sneer is gone from Donald’s lip; his teeth are clenched with hate,
“Believe me, folks,” he bigly says, “again I’ll make us great.”
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And once again The Donald must admit he does not know.
Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light.
And somewhere folks are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Gopland—mighty Donald has struck out.
(With apologies to Ernest Lawrence Thayer, author of Casey at the Bat.)