With Apologies to S. T. Coleridge
At
Mar-a-Lago, Donald Trump
A
tacky pleasure-dome decreed:
Where
gilded port-a-potties stood
Near
wardrobes of endangered wood
On
carpets gone to seed.
A
golf course and a salad bar
With
shrimp imported from afar
And
there were sycophants with noxious tones,
Inventing
policies to screw the common man
And
neo-Nazis on their private phones
Delivering
to Trump whate’er he’d need.
But
oh! that sleazy Mafioso fortress
Atop
a swamp mosquito-bit and rotten
A
slimy place! As fiendish and as hopeless
As
e’er upon Floridian coast was buttressed
By
fake flamingos and goods ill-begotten.
And
in this sewer, with ceaseless turmoil boiling,
Steve
Bannon with demonic helpers toiling,
The
plan for deconstruction was affirmed:
It
would not take more than a four-year term
To
make insolvent agencies galore
And
prop up corporations by the score
So
with a flippant pen stroke did his boss
Confirm
the fact he did not give a toss.
For
miles around the people stood defeated
And
wondered why they’d voted for the man
Whose
rage and bluster seemed to mask a plan
To
injure most those people most mistreated.
And
‘mid this tumult Trump heard from afar
Town
hall protestors prophesying war!
The shadow of old Mar-a-Lago
Blackened
half the sun-baked earth
Where
was heard the jingling laughter
Of
the one-percenters’ mirth.
It was a miracle discussed by scholars,
A pleasure-dome supported by tax dollars!
A damsel
with a cellular
In a
vision once I scanned:
It was a
Dutchess County maid
And on
her mobile phone she played,
Calling
her Congressman.
Could I
just clone her daily
Her
energy and ire,
In time
my own inertia’d fail me
And
with phone calls loud and long
I’d
bring down that dome of Trump’s,
That
irksome dome! those hideous fans!
And
all who’d been down in the dumps
They
all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His
pig-like eyes, his floating hair!
Weave
a circle round the man,
And
beam him to his Russian friends
For
this is where the nightmare ends,
And
we begin to breathe again.
HAPPY
BIRTHDAY TO A RESISTER.
