Not that far away a citadel of icy white glistened underneath the burning sun,
Hillary’s headquarters, watched over and protected by her guardian, Hera
And deep inside the fortress Glee ran rampant, joy and hilarity unbounded
For, they were sure, the House at 1600 was won, that very day.
Smooth flowed the Kristall, the bubbly, as Tim Kaine raised his glass,
“Oh Democrats! Oh soon-to-be victors!” He knew how to get their attention!
They turned to him, did Donna Brazile of Louisiana, the chairwoman,
And owlish Podesta, as did Robby Mook, master of microtargeting,
And of course pure Chelsea, Hillary’s daughter, and Bill’s.
“Oh Democrats, for the election is some moons away, yet has our opponent
Shot himself in the foot, kicked his own ass, perhaps, oh yes,
Perhaps he will concede today!” And there was more laughter, and dancing,
Even roving-eyed Bill took part, twirling about with Madame Madeleine,
Albright and shiny, and Donna as well, then a wide-eyed intern or two;
And Hillary did not object, not on that day of days, let him have his fun.
Kaine called for the Candidate, the Woman of Wellesley, in these words,
“Oh Hillary, anointed one, successor of blessed Obama!” At that coy Hillary blushed.
“Outside they await you, your pals, the mainstream media, friends to us all,
White-haired Anderson, Christiana of the funny accent, and bass-voiced Koppel,
Brian Williams is there too, the warrior reporter, and venerable Andrea,
Wife of Greenspan, she too longs for you to attend upon them, tell them
Of your outrage, that of all women of virtue, how the Trump is unfit!”
Pantsuited Hillary nodded, gaily strode out the door, left the party behind,
Into the light of the Manhattan sun, and they surrounded her, the media,
Clamoring for attention, begging for a quote, a bite of sound for them to chew,
To feed the hungry masses at six o’clock. “Tell us O Hillary, pride of Dorothy,”
They all spoke as one, “Tell us, our soon-to-be-leader, first of your sex,
Was it revulsion or disgust, deep loathing or a sudden onset of foul nausea
That, hearing the vile words of the Trump, you felt?” And Hillary furrowed her brow,
And the media, in the presence of the Chosen One, the Successor, held its breath
She smiled inside, but held her joy in check, and answered with sober words,
“All Americans should recoil from my opponent, the chubby one,
Is that how we treat women in this country? Husbands think of your sweet wives,
Fathers of your daughters, is this the man to set the example?
O Republicans! Your pain I know, and I forgive you, for as the liver
Seems appetizing at first glance, yet after a bite you spit it out,
So it is with the Groper. O Republicans, you have a home here, where we are
Stronger together, that is my plan, where children can dream, families are strong,
And yes, love trumps hate,” she finished her remarks, and the reporters nodded,
All in agreement, that should clinch it, for the Successor who will Succeed.
Only hard-hearted Jennifer Griffin of Fox News, fair and balanced, had a question,
All the other reporters glared at her, the presumption! Appalling!
“Missus Clinton, husband of Bill, the philanderer,” and at this Hillary frowned,
“What about your emails?” Then Hillary winced, and all the world saw it,
She stumbled on the sidewalk, as if a sharp-tipped arrow struck her heel,
And she said, “My father, loving Hugh, a Navy man, enlisted after Pearl Harbor,
My mother abandoned by her parents, worked as a maid at age fourteen,
Saved by the kindness of others,” and the adoring media gasped as she dodged
Jennifer’s question. “Your emails,” again she pressed, and Hillary sucked in a breath,
“You had a server in your home!” Jennifer dared accuse the Chosen of blessed Obama.
The others, open-mouthed, all clamored at once, “Oh Hillary, forgive her,
She does not speak for us, she hails from Fox, Roger Ailes’ home,
Outcast among networks, and to their relief the Successor waved it off.
And back in the Tower of Gold, watching it unfold, was none other than the Trump,
Surrounded by his retinue, and suddenly hope shone in the marbled salon,
“That’s it!” exclaimed the golden-haired Prime of all Primates, “that is it!”
“What,” inquired the Slav-loving Manafort, Paul, second of his name, “is it?”
Bristling, Trump rebuked him: “Why are you here, not seeing the obvious? Why
Do we need you?” And Paul, the son of Paul Sr. and Antoinette shrank in a corner.
“When she says ‘look here’ we say ‘look there’, when she denounces us
We say ‘what about this’ and ‘what about that’.”
The room fell silent,
As all contemplated the genius of the Trump, the One. The quiet was broken
By the Trump’s golden cell phone, and he answered, the button pushed with
Tiny fingers. “Mikepence, my mate, not that kind, what tidings?”
And the Trump’s wooly brows furrowed hearing the white-haired Hoosier.
“Fear not, O Mikepence, fear not, let your heart be stilled, for all is not lost,
But won, you shall see, we have concocted a great plan, cunning and smart,
Very smart, no one has ever seen a plan so smart, only I could have thought it,”
And he went on like this for many minutes. Finally a word did Pence insert,
The Trump, hearing it, raged, “Et tu, Pence? Tell me oh-so-moral man,
You have never grabbed a pussy? No?” Righteous Pence, the altar boy,
Railed at the Trump’s ear, quoting scripture and verse, preaching,
And burning red did the Trump’s face get. “Listen, half-hearted traitor,”
He fired back, “Do you desire that Hillary, the Liar, the abortion-loving
Baby killer, should win? She who dwells in corrupt, money-grubbing places
Like Goldman Sachs, where for her speeches she is paid, Hillary of New York,
The Elitist, do you want her to defeat me, the Trump? Send you back to
Fort Wayne?” And thinking of Indiana, the heartland, the Trump shuddered.
“All right then. Be of good cheer, Mikepence, and keep your blue eyes focused
On trustworthy Fox.”
To yellow-suited Kellyanne he then addressed,
“We need to make some calls. You, call Paula Jones, all Bill’s women,
Kathleen and Juanita, the ones Bill pawed, disgusting man,
Hillary let it happen.” He said it again, for effect, “Hillary LET IT HAPPEN,
Brought it on herself, had she been a devoted wife, warm in bed
Bill, the man from Arkansas, would have stayed true, it is as if
She herself bedded those women, she is an ENABLER!”
And all smiled, hearing the greatest whatabout of all time, and
Who could have done it, truly, except the Trump, only he could have,
The Trump, the One.
Then he asked Manafort, manager of the team,
“Paul, beloved of Putin and myself, I need you to start calling them,
The donors, the PAC’s, the people who support us, oh-so-holy ones,
The evangelicals, who, God knows why, love us better than Hillary,
Even though her words should please them more than mine.
We rise, stronger, victory, my dear wealthy friends, will be ours!”
Tell me, O Muse, of the worthy beneficents, the true believers,
Contributors to the cause, to the orange-haired one, and his friends!
First among them was Sheldon of Vegas, owner of the Sands,
From the well-lit desert strip, glowing with neon, sweltering in the sun
Where gamblers gather, followers of Bugsy, throwers of dice
Hoping for the grace of Fortune, to beat the odds of the house,
Adelson sent forty-five millions of dollars, and through another company,
Another thirty-eight million images of Washington. Then followed
The hedgies, sharp-eyed investors, New York’s Elliott Management,
Masters of algorithms, big-brained quants all, thirty-eight billion
In assets under management, just a few steps from Bergdorf’s
Twenty-eight million crispy greenbacks, for the Trump,
And Renaissance of East Setauket, Robert Mercer’s company, with
Eighty-four billion under management, from them, fifteen million.
Next came the shipping boxers, from Pleasant Prairie, in Wisconsin,
From the land of cheese Uline unloaded twenty-five million American dollars
To worthy Trump’s open coffers, for which he was grateful.
And OneNation, the SuperPAC of Karl Rove, the Texan, Bush’s aide, did donate
Some twenty-one million, mostly to other groups, who loved Trump,
The Cubs of Chicago, soon to be crowned champions of the world,
Fifteen million bills of green, and ten million from football’s Texans
Think it evil, O friends, that so much came from corporations,
Seeking shareholder enrichment, and not from the suffering masses?
Yet must you remember well the words of slick-haired Romney,
Man from Utah, who reminded us all, and clearly, “Corporations are people too.”
Eighteen million dollars came from Mountaire, chicken farmers of Delaware
From Arkansas, Maryland, North Carolina and Virginia come their fryers,
Fifth largest contributor of all, to the Trump, for which he was grateful,
But wanted more.
And the Kochs too, of Wichita, in flat Kansas,
They contributed too, but the brothers Charles and David,
Harbored deep suspicions about the Trump, did not trust him,
The Trump knew it, and wondered when they would turn on him,
Free-traders they, the Kochs, when the Trump wanted walls around America
But still they wrote a ten-million dollar check. Not to the Trump, but
To his cause, the conservatives, as did many of the others,
Of course to help the Right was to help the Trump, as all knew.
“Better him than Hillary the crooked, the corrupt, the woman,”
They all whispered to one another, fearing hope and change.
Bernie Marcus, lord of Home Depot, brought seven million, just for
The Trump, and to red causes did ABC Supply supply fifteen million
Six million came from Vince McMahon, the strong-armed wrestler
The man of many rumbles, proud to send his cash to the Trump
And five from California man Geoff Palmer, the real estate mogul
So many dollars, all for the Trump, and he would thank them later
Reward them, show his gratitude, and not out of weak, simpering love,
Never showing weakness, the hobbler of the will, crippler of spirits
But the pragmatic one knew it: that he would need more, much more later;
So the thanks came, effusive, but mostly from Manafort, the Russia-lover.
From above, iron-chested Hephaestus and chaste Artemis guided their hands
Smoothly signing bank checks and money transfers, as the dollars speeded
Across electronic lines, disclosure forms were sent to the Elections watchers,
And the lover-gods, scheming in the smoky cave deep in Olympus’ depths,
Were happy in their work. And so they swelled, the accounts of the SuperPACs,
While the simple, the little people could only donate pittances to the Trump,
The SuperPACS could raise unlimited sums, hundreds of millions.
O how smug the Democrats had felt, campaign finance reform they called it,
The rich could not give riches to their candidates, could not sway their views
Then in the gleaming halls of the Court Supreme, the black-robed Justices
Behind their high bench, gavels pounding, issued a decision momentous,
Called Citizens United, it ushered in the SuperPACs, the rich got their way,
As always, fixed that, the SuperPACs collected whatever they needed, wanted,
Giving it to whomever they felt, whoever promised them great returns
Banish regulation, allow the cancerous smoke from coal plants to again
Blow across the land, through the valleys, or a cabinet appointment,
A cushy ambassadorship, O, what you could do with SuperPAC money!
For what was the point of being rich if you could not mold events to your liking?
And so, as the wide-flowing Mississippi rolls, keeps on rolling, unstoppable
From snow-covered Minnesota, through the heartland, to the oil-filled Gulf,
So too the checks, the millions, from small streams of a few thousand, to the
Million-dollar tributaries, a torrent of cash, irresistible, irrevocable, rising
Into the hands of the Trump.
But Hera, sponsor of Hillary, the Successor,
Was not idle. From high above on the mountain top, she directed
Speedy Hermes, he who brings messages from the gods, to fly below, to awaken
Democrats, the blue donors, to shake them from their complacency.
The teachers, the classroom-leaders from every part of the nation,
Shapers of our youth, united together, they gave Yale-educated Hillary
Thirty-three million dollars, and blue-suited hedgies from the other side,
Paloma of Greenwich, even more, forty one million, but like the Kochs
Most to other PAC’s, like Priorities USA, a super-PAC, beloved of Hillary
Progressives all. And Mercer’s Renaissance, hedging to the end,
Sixteen million, like the two-faced god, looking both ways, to
Hillary and white-toothed Tim. And George Soros, hated by the right,
The Hungarian, the globalist, opponent of Brexit, the great humanitarian
Feeder to the poor, supporter of people’s revolutions around the world,
Solidarity in Poland, the Rose Revolution in Georgia, the hungry everywhere
Ten million to Hillary, Bill’s wife.
Wingèd Hermes visited the union halls,
Coercing, cajoling, guiding their pens by Bic, getting their checks,
And from the Service Employees, thirty-nine million, and from
The National Education Association, twenty-nine million, and
From the saw dusty carpenters, twenty-six million, how many beams
And joists supported Obama’s Chosen?
Behind the sturdy Kremlin walls,
Adjoining broad Red Square, near the Tomb of goateed Lenin,
In snow-shrouded Moscow, sacred capital of all the ancient Russias,
Thin-haired Putin, whose hatred for Hillary knew no bounds, watched a tape,
Not Billy Bush’s tape, but another, from years ago, a visit by the Trump
To Holy Mother Russia, where the orange-haired one was entertained
By lovely Slavic lasses, in his room; wily Putin smiled, plotting his next move:
Defeat Hillary, own the Trump, and forever win the War of Cold.