High atop the golden Tower of Trump, on its wind-swept roof
Overlooking the never-sleeping city, home of L’homme de l’Orange,
From its nest, made from pure Central Park twigs, its aerie perch
A lonely young pigeonette took flight, lifting off that cold November night
Above Fifth Avenue she flew, banking slightly over Fifty Second,
And on to the legendary FDR along the soft-flowing East River.
Southward, southward, resting for a moment on
The Bridge’s westmost Tower, John Roebling’s greatest work,
Then again she alit, crossing the water to Brooklyn Borough,
Past the parks and the courts and the schools, settling at last on
One Pierrepont Plaza, poor Hillary’s battered, deserted citadel
Where it left a deposit. For a few moments it breathed in
The smoky, diesel-infused Gotham air, if it could be called that,
Before a strong and husky bird, reeking of musky male pheromones
Landed near her, exciting her long-suppressed desires.
And so the two avian paramours enjoyed a night of feathery passion.
The next morning, still basking in the pleasant afterglow
The well-satisfied pigeon stood, flapped her wings,
And dreaming of pigeon-marriage and nests and eggs and chicks
But wondering, where oh where had her lover gone off to,
She flew into the heart of a great, windy storm,
Carrying the hapless lass high over the city, then to Jersey,
Nor was she released over Delaware, or Maryland, home of the Preakness.
Trapped was she in the furious gales,
For years she was held in the terrible winds’ grip,
Granted respite for a day or a night, to eat a seed or two,
A struggle to stay alive! Once, the gales becalmed,
She landed on a solitary branch, only to find herself
In the grasp of a one-eyed raven, and only through a trick did she
Poke his one good eye out, and escape, back into
The grip of Aeolian fury, tossed her to there, to and fro,
Barely surviving as two frightful dark clouds smashed together!
Not until the terrible tempest reached Washington, D.C.,
Capital of glorious America, did it loosen its frightful grip,
Surrendering its hold to gravity, eternal force of attraction,
The spent creature, barely able to hold its wings, fell,
Landing on a pillared house of white, where again,
She emptied herself; then slept a dreamless sleep.
Over the days, weeks and years that followed, she built her nest,
Watched the crowds below come and go, in glossy limousines
With pomp and circumstance, sometimes bands played,
She liked those, bobbing her pigeonish head, and cooing, in time to
“Stars and Stripes Forever,” and the “Liberty Bell March.”
Oh, the ceremony! When the men bowed, she did too,
And as the begowned ladies curtsied, she stood, extended a wing
Knelt so slightly; such fun! She never saw Brooklyn’s Lothario again
But lust is almost as plentiful as ambition in Washington, D.C., and
There were many others. And so, as generation
After generation of her offspring flew off to Congress,
Where their pure well-aimed droppings fell from the Dome
Splattering upon thousand-dollar jackets and manicured hairdos
Of the elected, sent by the People themselves to represent them
To debate in the sacred halls, to compromise, in order that
We may all have a more perfect Union;
Others nested upon the Supreme Court, colonnaded home of the Aged Nine,
In black robes, from on high, dispensing justice to all the humble petitioners;
To the Smithsonian, the Scotsman’s enduring legacy,
And the Redskins, alas that horrid, offensive moniker!
So much better to be named a Football Team
Or something innocuous like that. All over the great city her scions went
Leaving their New York-descended droppings everywhere,
As their feathery matriarch regarded them with maternal pride.
Below, in the Office of Oval, behind the mighty oaken desk,
The mighty Resolute, gift from Her Gracious Majesty Queen Victoria,
Whose glorious rule predated even that of the Man of Manhattan.
The Trump, in whom the most awesome powers were now vested,
The hashtag #winner, the terror of Twitter, beloved of his followers,
Gazing out across the lawn, awaited his chariot of olive drab.
His boundless, ever-questing mind drifted, as it often did,
When the CIA man was briefing him about this trifle or that,
A Russian incursion here, Chinese cyberattacks on American companies,
Who really understood any of that really? Who would waste such time
On such things so far away, so remote, so – really – irrelevant?
No, as he waited for Marine One to whisk him from the boring spook –
Still couldn’t believe what Rosie had said about him last night on Fallon –
He thought back to those who had been lost, fallen, sacrificed themselves
Unable to keep up with the energy, the dynamism, the wonder that was
The Trump. Take Michael Flynn, the hard-nosed, hard-charging general,
A JSOC man, he’d chatted with Kislyak, the Mordovian,
Putin’s man, the portly Russian Ambassador, a lover of vodka
Even before blessed Obama departed Sixteen Hundred;
Unauthorized, illegal, on Trump’s orders of course, lied to Pence about it,
Who would care, the white-haired Veep the most insignificant person on earth,
But the damnable Post found out, Flynn forced to resign. Then Spicey,
The buffoon, hired to explain the Trump to the evil press,
As if the Trump cared at all about what they thought, what they wrote.
Recalling them, the Man of Manhattan, the Supreme Sasquatch,
Scoffed, then frowned, remembered the traitorous Texan, Tillerson;
Exxon’s old boss, oh the treachery! “One of the truly great business leaders,”
Had tweeted the Trump, back in the day, “an excellent choice!”
He’d started well enough. The southern drawler, the oilman, pride of UT Austin,
Set about cleaning Foggy Bottom’s musty old house, that was laudable,
Drain the swampiest of swamps!
The pride of the oil patch, he hated them gum’ent emplAH-ees,
Nor could they block his ferocious assault, nor repel his pitiless attacks
So many left the honorable service, ambassadors and attaches, left it in disarray
Which pleased the Trump, it did, for the Deep State got a bit shallower.
Yet the Rexster had a teensy-tiny little problem, character flaw really,
With the concept of authority. As top diplomat
He expected that he ran things! Foolish man! Open talks with Assad,
Syria’s man, before the Russians do, he advocated – only to see
The Trump’s cruise missiles attempt to eliminate the dictatorial dentist;
And tiny Qatar, not so bad, but POTUS, who knows all,
Called the little peninsula a funder of vicious terrorists,
Annoyed them for some odd reason.
Oh Tillerson, could you not see it, the Trump, sees all, knows all,
Does all, regardless of expert opinions, good common sense
Or even reality. But then! But then! The greasy oilman
A plain speaker, in an unguarded moment, let fly his true feelings
Called the Trump a moron! A fucking moron!
Duly chronicled by those fake reporters, the Sniveling Snitches
At the fake Washington Post, Bezos’ baby.
So the Trump cut him down, skewered him with a simple tweet,
Sent him packing back to the Lone Star State, head hung in disgrace
Back to 24-oz steak dinners at the Petroleum Club, leisurely tennis at River Oaks,
With icy martinis served between sets by obsequious white-coated waiters;
Sprawling ranch and private jets, oh, the horror of unemployment!
Priebus, yeah, the Trump had never liked him, questioned his loyalty,
Maybe was a leaker too, got rid of him, and Bossert,
Insisted that diseases and pandemics threaten national security
Pfft! Silly idea! When we need more subs and carriers!
And Li’l Michael was gone too, the Trump had taken to calling him that
As if Cohen somehow resembled a chanting rapper. Yes, it’d come out,
The payoff, the one hundred and thirty thousand to full-chested Stormy
It’d all come out, and the Sniveling Scribblers had eaten it up.
The Man of Manhattan denied everything, as was his wont,
But Cohen insisted he’d done the Orange One’s behest,
So he had to go.
The Trump shook his head. Didn’t Cohen get it?
And Manafort. Paulie, Paulie, the Trump inwardly groaned.
What were ya doin’ Paulie? the mighty Don wondered to himself.
Didn’t register as a foreign agent, well, okay, who would? Understandable!
Wasn’t no spy, that was for sure! But then … those friends of his …
Yanukovich and Deripaska and Klimnik … very Slavic-sounding …
And, as it happened, good buddies with Putin all,
Bound to attract the attention of those surly snoops at CIA
And those houses, four in all, all very nice indeed, a bargain perhaps
At eleven million simoleons, but, Paulie, paisan, it’s the sorta thing
Ya know, that raises eyebrows, ya know what I’m sayin’?
And so, clad in orange, the better to recall his erstwhile lord and master,
Off he trotted to Northern Neck Regional, to spend the next seven years.
Papadalapa – er – Papawapa – er, Papadapoulous,
He’d lain in bed with the sly Slavs too, but he’d flipped,
Spent just a few weeks in the slammer.
Wavy-haired Bannon, he too departed, was it his idea as he said?
Or had he challenged the son of Fred one too many times?
No, none of those, for the Trump envied Bannon’s flowing locks;
While his own individually painted golden strands thinned
Bannon’s thick ‘do shamed the portentous president every day;
And so Bannon, the son of Martin, thrice married like the Trump himself,
Had to go.
So many lost, gefallene Kameraden, and unmourned.
Flynn, of course, and Manafort, and Rick Gates, the bastard, the flipper,
Spilling his loserly guts; and chubby Spicey, he’d gone too,
Tillerson, out on his Texas ass, and Bannon, with his accursed hair,
But so many more! McMaster, too, he’d held his post a year
Before the Trump tired of his expertise, figured he could do it better
Himself. And Tom Price too, the doctor who loved those private jets,
Especially when Health and Human Services picked up the tab
Figured it’d be fine if he signed his own expense reports,
Sunning on St. Simons, but those pusillanimous Posties got hold of it
Wouldn’t let it go, something about deepening the swamp,
So the mighty Trump, with a single blow, felled the Georgia man.
Nor was that all.
As the rabid bat in dusky evening hours
Awakes, glories in high flight, its sharp rodentish teeth bared
Wheeling in every direction, to and fro, foaming, slobbering,
Circling above the winged swarms of buzzing flies
Dives to snatch its prey, so too the avenging Man of Orange
Fiery-eyed, punished the mediocre, the disloyal,
Sweeping through their ranks! Sing to me, Muse,
You, beloved of the Olympian gods, singer of mighty tales,
How he hated to hire but loved to fire!
Tall Comey felt the sting of the Trump’s slash
The Man of Manhattan, demanding loyalty, didn’t get it
So out with him! Begone, untrustworthy one!
Stout-hearted McCabe stepped in to take his place,
But it wasn’t long before the Trump sacked him, too.
Lovely Omarosa, hired to make those of color love the Trump,
Failed in her task, and so was flung from the House of White.
And the Mooch, oh, silly Mooch, lasted just nine fun-filled days!
But could there be anyone as evil
As frightful, as terrible, as vile, as foul, as wicked,
As the witch-hunter, the former Marine and G-man,
Called out from retirement, no doubt from some rotting tenement,
Where they send the old, the decayed, the putrifying to expire –
The Trump grimaced to think the name, horrible two words:
Robert Mueller. And to think, that supercilious Southerner,
Slimy Jeff Sessions, the snake, had recused himself, let it all happen!
Oh, malicious Mueller! A second-rate Savonarola! A two-bit Torquemada!
Whoever the hell they were. Decorated for valor,
Respected US Attorney, prosecuted Noriega, the little druggie Panamanian,
The Lockerbie bombers, Gotti the smooth-talking Mafioso,
Mueller! Honored FBI Director, beloved even amongst his men,
Integrity! Fidelity! Bravery! Devotion to duty!
These seemed to actually mean something to Mueller!
Churchgoer, married to his high-school sweetheart,
Never cheated! (And how the Trump’s little rats had tried to find out!)
Nothing! Nothing to smear him with!
How could a man live like that? The Trump wondered,
As he beheld the majestic helicopter precisely land its three wheels
On the verdant lawn.
Well, there had to be something,
And he’d find it.
He took his leave of the Oval,
Walked outside, waved to the gathered Sniveling Snitches,
Acknowledged the private’s salute, oh yes, the little soldier
Will tell his grandchildren about it, stepped aboard.
The ‘copter arose, its rotors spinning, thousands of RPM
Just as Mama Pigeon, from her warm and comfy nest on the roof
Alit for a leisurely flight, nor did the Man from Manhattan
Notice the little bump as Marine One chopped her to pieces.