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.