No stout-hearted American can forget, that terrible Tuesday
Into the Towers flew those demented, detested terrorists,
The lives lost, the suffering, the scar upon our country’s greatest city
And an even deeper one on the nation’s battered soul.
Remind me, O Muse, the name of the hero who sprang into action,
On that fateful morning, taking command, issuing orders,
Comforting his saddened people, marshaling his forces,
Why, he’d even spurred CEO’s to pull fiber, so that
JP Morgan and Morgan Stanley and Lehman Brothers
Could all reopen! Yes, say his name, Muse! Say it –
Yes, Rudy, Giuliani by name, the son of Harold, a wise guy;
Papa G broke some arms and legs for Big Leo the Loan Shark,
Who, out of the kindness of his Sicilian heart had let people borrow
They hadn’t paid it back! But Rudy hadn’t gone that route,
Turned his back on his father’s crooked and violent ways,
Law school, Law Review, then straightaway the big leagues
The Southern District of New York! The steep legal ladder
He quickly climbed, taking on crooked congressmen,
Expelling Haitian refugees, indicted Boesky and Milken
How the stock market stooges blanched in fear,
Ran like rabid rats from raging Rudy!
Then, even as Papa G spun at a few hundred RPM’s in his grave,
Rudy loosed a great cry, and a thousand summonses and briefs,
The case of all cases, and against his own kind too!
“Hear me,” he cried, “O five families who have defiled
Our great Italian race, your time has come, mortal combat
I intend! Hear me, Gotti and Salerno and Castellano and the rest
In jurisprudential jousting vanquish you all I will!”
How the people cheered him as the dark crime lords
Were marched away in cuffs, down the dreaded perp walk,
Vowing revenge of the most deadly sort, but it was too late,
Their day had passed. Then off to Gracie Mansion
Mayor Rudy, now Lord of the Five Boroughs!
Of course, there was a slight problem with that,
Randy Rudy’s eye had wandered a bit, other body parts too;
Well, as Mayor of New York, a giant among men,
Did the usual rules apply? Marriage is an institution, yes,
But men, especially giants, have needs!
His wife Donna, rather less open-minded than he,
Didn’t see it that way, threw him out of the Mayor’s Mansion,
An odd situation, seeing the house was for the office holder.
Of course, Entertainment Tonight and Access Hollywood,
Vanity Fair and People and Us and all of them,
The toxic tabloids, so depraved, they ate it up, sold so many copies!
But all that was forgotten on that terrible Tuesday morn.
Under skies of the bluest blue, underneath a burning sun
Evil took a turn. And from the smoldering ashes Rudy rose,
America’s Mayor, they called him, Time’s Man of the Year,
Queen Elizabeth tapped on the shoulder with a sword, Sir Rudy!
Left his job, term limits you see, procured himself a new wife,
The new Mayor, his billionaire buddy Bloomberg, officiated,
And Rudy found himself on top of the world,
Only one goal remained, only one achievement did he covet –
The House of White.
In that race Rudy faced white-haired McCain
Pride of Arizona and arch-nemesis of Hanoi, and Mitt Romney,
Lately Master of Massachusetts and Savior of the Olympics:
A contest for the ages, pitting three worthy heroes!
And it was McCain who triumphed, winning the most votes,
Yet for him, and for the adorable, addled Sarah Palin, victory was fleeting:
As blessed Obama, hand in hand with regal Michelle,
Marched down the broad Avenue, swore the great oath.
Down, down Rudy sank, faded into obscurity, nobody called any more,
Hours, days his cell phone remained idle, though faithfully charged,
Black depression overcame him, they’d all forgotten America’s man.
Ever deeper did Rudy fall, listening every day as he did
To godlike Barack’s full sentences, brimming with multisyllabic words,
Oh, the isolation! The seething resentment against all those
Who had forgotten him! And across Manhattan
The exclusive clubs, escapes for the elite, sommeliers
And bartenders began to be accustomed to his face,
At the Grand Havana Room on Fifth Avenue, in DC
Shelly’s, on F Street, they knew his likes;
When he graced their doorway, lined ‘em up they did!
O Rudy, O fallen man!
Then one day, puffing on a stogie
A Montecristo of course, rolled in sweltering Cuba
Relabeled as a Cohiba, no sense upsetting the Customs minions,
And slurping down a Grey Goose Bloody Mary or five,
His eyes alit upon the television, where – could it be?
His old friend, the Merchant of Manhattan, the Trump himself,
Running for president? From his shocked mouth all a-sputter
His spicy drink sprayed over the well-polished bar,
For Rudy remembered…
Yes, the Inner Circle!
Where once a year, New York’s finest, not the men in blue,
But the finest, that is, the richest, the most powerful, the most connected
Get together and laugh it up. Yes, a few years back,
At the height of his glory, everybody loved him then,
Rudy and the Orange One did a little skit, they did,
America’s Mayor clad in lovely pink gown and blonde wig,
The salacious Trump trying to make out, finally so bold
As to kiss Rudy right between his Styrofoam D-cup breasts,
A big dripping wet smack, with tongue.
Recalling the moment, Giuliani guffawed out loud,
Too bad they’d taped it, though.
Seeing his old friend
On the screen, however, clever Rudy sensed an opportunity,
One which came a few months later, when the Access tape
Horrible thing, that idiot Billy Bush, played over and over
On every airwave from sea to shining sea. It fell to Rudy
To defend the Trump, on every Sunday talk show.
How they wanted to skewer the Orange One, yet
For every journalistic thrust resourceful Rudy, Rudy redux, cleverly parried,
Not sexual assault, just manly talk, over and over he repeated.
For his travails he earned the respect and lasting loyalty of the Trump;
Suddenly he was taking calls again! Talking to the candidate! He was
Back in the game! Strategy! Tactics! Advising! Pontificating!
Soon to be the next Secretary of State! Or Attorney General!
Visions of Cabinet meetings danced in his combed-over head!
But ‘twas not to be. On election night lonely Rudy waited by the telephone,
Still had one, connected with a wire to the wall, so quaint
The Treacherous Texan got State, slimy Sessions, the AG.
What the fuck, moaned the once-mighty Mayor,
Lost, lost, all is lost; as the brilliant Titanic, once the ocean’s Queen,
Slowly, inexorably, slipped beneath the frigid arctic waves,
So too ruined Rudy felt himself sinking, drowning – and then – and then
He called! Hold for the President, the honey-voiced operator’s voice,
Then the Trump came on the line, had a special role for him,
Personal attorney, gonna need you buddy, lot going down,
Lil Michael Cohen, squealing like a pot-bellied pig
With a foot-long pecker pumping its ass,
Those DOJ bastards writing down every word;
I need a wartime consigliere! (You know what that means, right?)
But what about a Cabinet role, Rudy insisted; do well here,
The Trump replied smoothly, we’ll see, to which
Giuliani, his heart warmed by his master’s words, accepted.
Sticking my face into your boobs again, though,
Firmly declared the Chief Executive of the United States
To the former US District Attorney, Mayor of New York,
Knight of the British Empire. After that Rudy, the enforcer’s son,
Did what any man would do: flipped on his PC,
Logged on to crow about his new role with some well-worded tweets.
Straightaway the Man of Manhattan issued his orders,
To Rudy, the fixer, just like his father before him.
To handle l’affaire Stormy and while he was it, Karen McDougal as well,
Cohen, claimed the Trump, cocked it up; fix it, fixer.
And that Sunday, right there on ABC, the Perspicacious Prosecutor
Proclaimed, after thorough investigation, that the Trump
Committed no crime in paying off the two women:
No crime! Perfectly legal! Thus putting the matter to bed, so to speak.
Not exactly what I had in mind, grumbled the ungrateful Trump,
Saying was legal means I did it, moron!
O, the Trump reamed Rudy a new one for that!
Melania saw it too, wanted to know where her cash was.
Quickly Rudy searched for redemption, a way to recover
And found it – where else?—on Twitter.
Now of course Putin, Master of Russia, he’d striven for Trump,
Secretly marshaled his spooks in support of the Man from Manhattan,
And the submariner’s son won the thanks of the Trump,
As well as, privately, his fear, since Putin still possessed The Tape.
All this meant that Ukraine, recently invaded by the Red Army
(Though they’d stripped themselves of their national colors,
As if to disguise themselves, but everyone knew of course,
Called them little green men, other names after
They shot down the Malaysia Airlines flight, woopsies!)
Anyway, the Kievans didn’t hold the Trump in such high regard,
A fact that Pyotr Pavlov, deep in the heart of Mother Russia,
A minion of Seryozha, one of Putin’s master spooks,
Did not miss. To Twitter the young kapitan turned,
Taking an American persona, @USA_Shooter007:
“Secret sources say, vas not Russia, beeg friendly land of wide steppes,
Happy dancing bears and mountain-distilled vodka,
But evil Ukraine has server, dared to release emails,
Poor Russia, wrongly accused, unwanted shame fallen
On heads of babushkas!”
Like a stallion rearing in the plains,
So Rudy leapt up, this was his moment, hailed a cab,
To LaGuardia, spurring the driver on, grabbing the first shuttle
To D.C., to the House of White!
The sharp-eyed Trump,
He’d seen it too, summoned fat Mike, King of all Kansas,
Trusted Secretary of State, he’d replaced the treacherous Texan,
Fat Mike, he knew how to lavish praise, like syrup on pancakes,
On his boss! Frothing at the mouth was the Man of Manhattan,
Seeing the tweet. Then the worthy Wichita Warrior,
Showed his golden-haired lord where Ukraine was, who ran it,
Poroshenko, the chocolate-maker, he’d been tossed out,
And a TV star – who would believe it! – Zelensky by name,
Had just been elected. “Finally,” the Trump nodded approvingly,
“Someone who understands ratings!” Yes, Volodymyr
Played the President of Ukraine, Servant of the People
The number one comedy! And wily Putin, who hated Poroshenko,
Thought it’d be great fun if the actor suddenly succeeded
To the real role, and so he turned Sasha’s FSB goons loose;
After all, wasn’t Ukraine really, rightfully part of Mother Russia?
And, argued the master tactician, Mama wants her kids back!
Into the Oval Office burst America’s Mayor, out of breath,
Red in the face, holding up his iPhone Seven,
“I saw it,” the Trump said, but then Rudy, O Rudy, shot back
Breathing one word: “Hunter.” Together fat Mike and the Man of Orange
Gasped, both grasping the implications, genius!
Rudy was redeemed, restored, reinvigorated, returned
To the Trump’s love and grace! For of the evil liberals
Beginning to array themselves against the Trump,
All were weak, all losers! Pocawarren and queer Pete
Crazy Communist Bernie and kooky Kamala,
But white-haired Biden, rightful heir to blessed Obama,
So clean, honest, sympathetic, lost a wife and a son,
Well, better to torpedo him sooner rather than later!
Two years to the election, but never too early to spatter some mud!
Where Giuliani had discovered Hunter Biden’s name,
Who knew, but Rudy, himself a Twittermaster,
Brilliant reader of Breitbart, favorite fan of Fox,
He’d put two and two together! Connected the dots!
Then the Man of Manhattan summoned his brain trust
Closest allies, Kellyanne and satanic Steven Miller
Ivanka of the long blonde tresses, and mousey Kushner.
Entering the Office of Oval, all knelt in his imposing presence.
Wisdom, born of long years of deal-making and failed casinos,
Then flowed from the well-enameled mouth of the Trump,
“Boon companions, for some, facts guide decisions,
For others, for those like us, who mold reality to our liking,
Facts support decisions!” Awed by these words
Were they in the Oval Office! “And having set upon an action,
Gather we must the facts, the correct facts, the necessary facts,
Proving us justified, ignoring the rest; facts, you see, are
Tools in our service! Most people don’t know that,” he added.
And then, these words he spoke to Rudy, these very words,
“Well have you done, gentle Giuliani, great lord of the lawyers;
I charge you now, Proactive Prosecutor, Scourge of the Scalawags,
To Ukraine you must go, to its golden capital Kiev, have the chicken,
Root about, through all the slop, through all the fragrant crap,
Until the truth you discover, our truth!” His chest puffed out,
Newly redeemed Rudy rushed to Dulles, not in a lowly cab,
But a presidential limo! To London first, where he booked his flight
To Kiev of the golden domes. At the ticket counter,
The lovely lass asked which carrier, at which point Rudy,
Feeling an urge, muttered, “I gotta wiz,” and so
Seat 23B on Wizz Air, the discount pride of Budapest.
Though cramped, he tried to rest his weary, Trump-saving eyes,
But was awakened time and again, someone calling his name
Flight attendant, then pilot, then co-pilot!
Finally, rising, shuffling into the aisle, waking a snoring
Pork belly dealer, he asked the stewardess,
An attractive young thing named Olga,
Who innocently inquired as to her interlocutor’s name?
When he replied, she sweetly chuckled, replied,
“Our destination Kiev International Airport, located in
Zhulyany, suburb of the onion-domed capital.”
Rudy laughed too, an extraordinary coincidence,
An excellent omen for his mission!
Landing at Zhulyany, Giuliani stretched his legs,
Smelled the flower-scented Ukrainian air,
And was greeted by not one but two Ambassadors,
Masha Yovanovitch, America’s gallant representative to Kiev,
And Gordon Sondland, Ambassador to the EU, pride of Mercer Island
Who had a habit of showing up wherever the action seemed to be.
As their limousine, escorted by police cruisers and motorcycles,
Manned by Kiev’s finest, passed Independence Square,
Along leafy Sofiivska Street, where, oddly enough,
Paul Manafort maintained an office until his residence changed
To one featuring bars, America’s Mayor explained his objectives,
Tippity-top secret all: first, find Hillary’s lost email server,
Hidden somewhere in this vast land (the Trump had sent him a text
Helpfully suggested “In the Ark of the Covenant, maybe?”); second,
CrowdStrike, a cyber firm, they’d uncovered the Russian hackers,
But there was a Ukrainian guy working there, guy in charge,
What kind of game are they playing, these Ukes, the Trump wanted to know?
And lastly, this was the big thing, nothing more important, Hunter Biden!
Masha noted that Biden’s son served on the board of Burisma,
A local energy company; Aha! Giuliani pounced. I knew it!
Tell me the names, he directed, of all those he bribed,
How much, what did Joe do, who’d he screw, all the juicy details!
O, the Perspicacious Prosecutor in fine form, offering
Immunity in exchange for tell-all testimony!
But Masha, the pride of Princeton, could only say
He hadn’t done anything wrong, no evidence whatever.
Well, find some! He lashed out at her, this comes from the President!
You’re not playing ball here! She’d have to go, he thought.
Then, from official to official they drove,
The prosecutor, Lutsenko, the oligarch Kolomoisky,
The lovely crown-braided Prime Minister, Yulia Timoshenko;
How the Inquisitive Investigator desired more time with her!
Even met with mottle-faced Yushchenko, Putin’s boys
Had tried to kill him some years back, pumped him full of dioxin,
But he’d survived, served out his term.
But none were able to help, none provided the facts
So sought after by raging Rudy.
On the way back,
This time first class on British Air, no more of that Wizzy stuff,
Thank you, Rudy cooked up his next steps. He rushed back
Straight to the Oval, confirmed to the Trump it was all there,
They just had to get it, and suggested the Man from Manhattan,
Go right to the top: a telephone call with Ukraine’s new boss,
One titan of television to another, Giuliani flattered the Trump,
With much in common; tell him what you need, he’ll get it!
The Trump for his part nodded, accepted this sage advice,
Have a call, Rudy urged him,
A perfect call.