The Donald’s Going
(With apologies to W.B. Yeats)
Rooting and rooting in the White House drain
The plumber cannot hear the moving men;
Things go in boxes; the hairspray takes up four;
Marine One has lifted from the lawn,
The orange-tinged malaise has lifted, and everywhere but Fox News
The Veuve Cliquot and Tattinger are downed;
The GOP lacks all credibility, while the plumber’s fist
Is full of matted yellow hair.
Surely this is a revelation in his hand;
Surely the greatest hair ball of all time is in his hand.
We’re talking yuge! Hardly are those words typed
When a cartoon image off a New Yorker cover
Delights my sight: somewhere in the skies above D.C.
A shape with hippo body and the head of a Cheeto,
A gaze as vile and heartless as a pimp’s,
Is wringing its wee hands, while beneath it
Sound cheers of the ecstatic citizenry.
The darkness may drop again; but now I know
That twenty months of venal rule
Were vexed to nightmare by a special prosecutor,
And what foul brute, his resignation proffered at last,
Slouches towards Mar-a-Largo to be irrelevant?