Letter to the Editors

Dear Sirs,

Of course, you already know the story of my discovery, which has brought me fame, if reflected, and glory, having been covered extensively in The National Enquirer, the Journal of Irreproducible Results, and in numerous interviews and features on Fox News, including a truly delightful morning spent with the Friends where, I must say, they provided this surprised guest the most delicious refreshments during the commercial breaks, including a crème brûlée that simply made one’s mouth water, accompanied by a sixty-year old port whose impressive tannins struck one’s unsuspecting taste buds like an electric eel in rut.

But to my tale. You have all heard it: how I was invited to the south of France for a short visite with my old school chum Georges and his wife Marie-Louise-Jennifer. Of course, given the subsequent publicity, I have kept the precise location of their quaint eighteenth-century domicile très confidentiele, as it were, to protect their privacy and that of their children, Marc-Joseph, Tiffanie-May, and Chuck.

Through a week, then extending it to two and then three, I played the raconteur to my friends, telling them again and again of the fascinating political intrigues of our Department of Comparative Literature and of the subtle intricacies of the Miltonian sonnet. Each evening after dinner and cognac my hosts would anxiously glance at each other, wondering, I suppose, which of my stories I would tell that night!

How pleasant the nights as they consumed snifter after snifter while I talked!

I believe it was a Friday that, a fit of ennui having struck us all, Georges loaded his two pigs, Al and Maybelle, into a trailer behind his Peugeot and we took a short drive through the charming Dordogne countryside. Inquiring as to our destination, I was told we were motoring to a great forest a few kilometers away.

Soon we arrived; Georges loosed the happy pigs from the trailer; and a-truffling we went!

After several exhausting hours of search, a few brushes with some sort of terrible itch-inducing fern (striking with particular intensity my most private areas), and only a few samples of the precious fungus found, and those given to the ravenous porcines, Georges and his lovely, well-fed wife made the decision to abandon their quest and return to their humble chateau on Rue Pétain.

Having, apparently, forgotten about their guest, they strode quickly back to their car, nudging their pigs along with a stick, and were about to drive away, when I noticed, waved, and gave chase – and immediately slipped on a nasty little objet, a small piece of fresh excrement, recently, I suspect, shat by Al. I fell, and, while in flight, as it were, my eyes landed upon a sheaf of papers underneath Al’s petit produit.

Stifling my disgust, I reached through the putrid waste and urine to find an ancient, discarded manuscript: which the world knows now as the newest masterpiece of world literature, the Trumpiad.

So transfixed was I by my discovery that I did not notice Georges and Marie-Louise-Jennifer speeding away, but no matter, as I sat and read the entire epic from cover to cover. Luckily, my academic training being in Indo-European-Greek-Early Bronx languages, I was able to comprehend the truly extraordinary majesty of its verse. I cannot describe to you the sheer joy, ecstasy even, of being the first human in generations to set eyes on the worn pages!

As the hours passed and darkness fell, accompanied by a bone-chilling cold, I realized I had to leave the forest or risk serious illness – or, heaven forbid, an attack by boars or whatever other sort of primitive creature inhabited those parts. So, after some difficulty – Georges’ cell phone being, evidently, out of order – I was able to make contact with Uber.

Being possessed of typically Gallic reserve, Georges and his family did not demonstrate great emotion or shed tears of relief at my safe return, but instead rather gruffly ordered the cook to put on another plate. I must confess, however, I could not contain my excitement at my find, and so I regaled them with an ad lib translation of the entire work, with commentary, that night, which kept us awake until the very early morning hours.

Finally, as Dawn herself arose, we slept, and as has been recounted many times, there happened a great tragedy. For that morning, the aforementioned cook, a true Alsatian idiot, set off to the local market to procure fresh trout for our midday repast – and wrapped his purchase, that fetid, decomposing poisson, in the precious pages of our epic, ruining the priceless manuscript forever. Of course, when I learned of this catastrophe, I loudly expressed my righteous anger, at which point Georges and Marie-Louise-Jennifer suggested, rather firmly, that I take my leave, which only added to my indignation.

But the world of literature has been saved, thanks to moi, as I am blessed with a photographic memory, and so the Trumpiad lives, reproduced in the following few pages.

Of the author, ὅ Βόνηρος, “Boneros,” or as we have come to familiarly refer to the great Bard today, “Boner,” we know little. Perhaps he was blind, as legend holds, or perhaps not; perhaps he was a simple peasant working the fields of Alabama, or perhaps one of the Trump’s inner circle, choosing to hide his identity and his glorious talent. It is not even out of the realm of possibility that our poet is the great Trump himself, singing his own wondrous tale!

I have blathered enough, I suppose. Dear reader, it is time for you now to enjoy this great masterpiece! I have but one request – and I pray you will grant it – that you read this aloud so that you (and all around you) can fully appreciate the poet’s marvelous use of both diction and meter.

Oxford, October 2018


Imagine my shock, and that of all of us here at Oxford, when we heard that our colleague, whom we casually, and sometimes crossly, refer to as “MSP,” had happened upon perhaps the greatest literary discovery of recent times. Of all people, the sentiment echoed through the halls, why him?

Why, indeed, had the Fates smiled upon MSP? Surely many of his colleagues were more deserving. We have all slavishly lived by that academic dictum, “publish or perish,” following the rules, while MSP seemed happier discussing the hero’s journey and existential angst of Assassin’s Creed, which he practiced incessantly in his office, often without clothes, as he claimed it made his game play faster, as did an ever-flowing supply of Wild Irish Rose, which (he said) gave him focus, even if he had to occasionally pee in a trash can. (Needless to say, few attended him during his office hours. Nor was he popular among the custodial staff.)

Where the remainder of the faculty here at Oxford (if I do say so myself) consider ourselves fine, caring pedagogues, MSP rarely showed up for class, and when he did, he was either late, or drunk, or both. How many times I asked our Board why this reprobate was allowed to continue, only to hear some barely comprehensible mumbling about a rather large, but secret endowment by his father; there were rumors that the money – and MSP’s salary – were used to launder cash from an outrageously lucrative pyramid scam, and I now pass that on to whatever authorities might be paying attention, career be damned.

 Whatever deities there may be, they or he or she or it operate in mysterious ways, truly. For nothing could be more mysterious, more puzzling, more antithetical to karma than to pick this singularly inappropriate individual for such a great thing! It was as if Moe, Larry and Curly had opened King Tut’s crypt! I myself have written dozens of well-reviewed articles for the Publications of Modern English Scholars, have always scored high on student evaluations, always knew which students came from the most influential or wealthy families so as to grade them particularly generously, keeping parent satisfaction high. I have been told I am an accomplished, perhaps even distinguished, academic, which leaves us with the question: Why him?

Well, without a doubt, this all proves something. What, I don’t know.

So there, I wrote it.


John Friedrich Salieri
Oxford Community College
Oxford-upon-Chattooga, South Carolina











Remembered and lovingly translated by

Mervyn Smythe-Polhemus






PAYBACK! Sing to me, O Muse, of revenge, of how the orange-haired one,
The Trump, gazed upon the television, upon himself, center of the world,
Emerging from the bus with Billy Bush, a fool among men,
And heard the damning words, those that should have never been said,
How he could grab any woman’s soft pussy, and he felt no guilt,
Why should he, he was The Trump, above all men in such things.
“I can do anything,” spoke his voice, “I just start kissing them, grab ‘em!”
All those tender loins, yearning, longing, he knew they were, for his hot essence.
There in his gold-gilt Tower he watched CBS, NBC, CNN, and trustworthy Fox,
Saw himself, over and over, barely repressing a smile since only he knew,
It was all true, all of it, he could grab them, whenever, wherever,
Being the Trump. But all in the marbled foyer held their thoughts within,
No one spoke, not smooth-talking Manafort, or Melania of the flowing tresses
Nor radiant Ivanka or Jared, the mouse-faced one, or fire-eyed Bannon.
Instead the lovely women, beloved of the Trump, crossed their legs, tightly
As if to guard themselves from an intruder, their hands resting on their skirts,
Like oaken portcullises barricading their castles, full of fragrant riches.
Then well-fed Chris Christie, the Newarkian, he of the bulbous cheeks, spoke out,
Choosing his words, but directly, piercing the pregnant silence of the cool room
“O Donald, admired among all men, and sought after by all women,
Donald, uncrowned Sovereign of all Manhattan and master of great towers,
This,” and he pointed a fat finger at the glowing screen, “is not good.”

Tell me, Muse, of the strife among the gods that brought forth this conflict,
Between the conqueror of blondes, the Trump, and strident Hillary of Yale,
The war below mirroring the confrontations above, on snow-capped Olympus
Where years ago blue-eyed Hera, queen of the gods, confronted her spouse,
Zeus, son of Kronos and master of the thunderbolt, the great king
Saying, “My husband, for too long has the domain of man been ruled by man,
Change must come,” and mighty Zeus stirred, and pondered her demand,
Then he whispered wise words, “Hera, my loyal concubine, and my queen,
What?” Testily she replied, “Great lord of the thunder, listen up this time,
For it is my wish that a woman should rule over the humans below,
No more domination by sloth-like men but rather by smooth-skinned women,
Time, I judge, for Hillary, late of Foggy Bottom and Pennsylvania Avenue,
To take the reins of America of the purple mountains and amber waves of grain
To sit at the Resolute Desk wielding her mighty pen against the bastard McConnell.”

Zeus rose from his rest, hoping to placate his wife with sweet words,
“Kind Hera,” he started, placing his mighty hands on her soft shoulders,
“Loveliest of all goddesses, my consort through all of everlasting time,”
A gentle smile curled his lips, “perhaps indeed I shall consider it.” But Hera
Saw through it, understood well the wiles of her majestic lord.
And so she snapped, “Do it. Now.” Zeus, knowing well valor’s better part,
Meekly answered, “Yes, my dearest love.” And Hera left, the words “You better,”
Leaving her lips.
And so he pondered the problem, and after a time
The cloud-dwelling god conceived a plan, cunning in its intent.
The Thunderer summoned an ethereal Dream, the Tantalizer,
Created a vision, wondrous, glorious in its historic import,
Of dinners in the Residence, flights on Air Force One,
Motorcades and “Madame President,” all for Hillary, daughter of Hugh
And with a puff of cool Olympian air, the King of all the Gods,
Lord of all things in the cosmos, excepting of course his strong-willed Queen,
Launched the Dream, sent it to her, far below in the land of men.

The incorporeal spirit wafted through the clouds down to grassy Chappaqua,
Paying no heed to the black Suburbans outside and agents in the barn,
Unseen, unheard by men, but the forest sprites and elves saw it
Wished it well on its journey, and a welcome reception.
Dreams depart only on awakening, always leaving behind a trace,
Teasing us with realities, just, it always seems, out of reach.
Like a stealthy burglar, with not a sound nor a trace, Dream entered her mind,
Dangled history itself before the sleeping Secretary, immortality
A glorious destiny, never achieved by woman, within her grasp.
And all-seeing Zeus, his charge complete, closed his own mighty eyes.

But all was not well on the snowy god-mountain. For deep in its caverns,
Deep in smoke filled caves, Hephaestus the metal-worker toiled,
Glowing sparks flying from his hard-hammered
His grimy visage dripping sweat, his brow soiled with grime, and
Hot resentment filled his soul. For lovely Hera, the blue-eyed one,
Queen of the gods and of the broad Olympian fairways, had commanded
A putter of gold, better than that of Artemis, goddess of the hunt
And of the eighteenth hole, which she birdied, angering Hera.
“A golden club, not of Ping but of titanium-reinforced gold you shall build,”
Imperiously ordered the Queen, and Hephaestus had to comply,
For in the order of divine Olympus he fell last, and
He cared not for Zeus’ high-voltage lightning bolts on his ass.

But Artemis, the huntress, visited the metal-worker in his cavern
Sought to foil her Queen’s plans, using her feminine charms,
Have him put flaws in the Putter, that Hera miss her eagle putts,
And so green-eyed Artemis alit in the cave, blew in his ear,
Admired his rippling chest, and greeted him with throaty words,
“Hephaestus, mighty man of molten iron, your six-pack excites me,
Lie with me, take me now,” breathlessly she exclaimed with flaring eyes;
Tempted thus, he abandoned his work, the Golden Putter, for Artemis;
And the high peak of Olympus did shake in their divine passion.
But Hera, all-knowing, at once understood Artemis’ plot.
She flew into a fury, knowing that the metal-working god, the cave-dweller
Had shirked his duty. She flew down to the cave, deep into the earth
Where the rocky smoke-stained walls were lit only by eternal torches
Where Artemis lay next to the metalsmith, both asleep, resting
After the exertions of their love, breathing great contented breaths,
The dank air now permeated with the fragrant scent of their godly fluids.
“Awake! Awake!” shouted Hera, “leave now, you who cheapen your body,”
And to Hephaestus, “Finish now, or I shall confine you to Hades for a
Thousand years, or maybe Detroit.” “But I like him,” started Artemis,
But Hera caused a great wind to blow, carrying the lust-struck goddess away
And reluctantly the resentful metal-worker resumed his toils.

Artemis, goddess of chastity, seethed in her shame, for her sin
Realized the finished Putter of Hera would sink more balls than hers,
Unacceptable! she cringed, she reveled in haughty Hera’s losses, and soon
She returned to the cave, where she found her lover frustrated and panting
They schemed together, to embarrass the mighty Queen,
Put her in her place, lower the Thunderer’s opinion of his wife,
By ruining Hera’s Earthly champion, Hillary, Hugh Rodham’s daughter,
With the Trump.
The cursed lovers first enlisted Momos, spirit of laughter
Hatched a task for him, to fly down to the Correspondent’s Dinner,
Where blessed Obama, hallowed be his name, stood at the dais,
Before the elite of the world, reporters and CEO’s and hedgies, in a great hall,
In which sat the Trump, surrounded by blondes. Sacred Obama spoke,
Grandson of Hussein and Habiba, honored son of Ann and Barack the Elder,
And the lights shone so brightly upon him, “Oh Donald,
Great among men, the original birther, how you have toiled to unseat me
With lies of where I was born, and yet now, the world all knows, I am
Barack of Honolulu, Hawai’i-born, as American as you. Oh Donald,
Finder of truths, Roswell beckons, where the bald-headed aliens await you
And did we really land on the moon?” And Momos, the chuckler,
Tickled them all, for the crowd erupted, roared in loud laughter.

A great fury, a rage without bounds, upwelled inside the insulted Trump
A fierce anger, with gas, rose throughout his corpulent self, his wide belly trembled
Silently the Trump swore an eternal oath, before the blondes and the gods
That one day smug Obama would slink away in shame from him,
That one day from the steps of the White House and from Twitter, he,
Porky Trump would humiliate Obama and Hillary and all his enemies!
Bring them down, make them squirm, beg as if for their last meal!
Only cat-eyed Melania saw it, saw the fury overcome her husband,
She knew, that once struck, the Trump hit back with ten times the force.
She’d seen it, the Trump having sued his ex-wives for the tiniest violations
Of their divorce agreement, it was the evil Roy Cohn who taught him that,
Roy the red-baiter, counsel to McCarthy, godfather to the Trump
And long-tressed Melania knew it, revenge was forming in the air.
Artemis, having taken the form of a waitress in the room, saw all, and smiled.

Eventually the gods on the thin-aired peak saw a great war loom,
And they took sides, with Hera backing Yale-educated Hillary, and
Artemis and her metal-working lover behind the Trump. Other gods, too,
Thinking Hera had become too proud, followed the pair,
But not all. Zeus of the lightning bolt only watched with amusement,
And vain Apollo cared only for his stylish tunic and shoes
But Hermes, who himself desired the charms of lovely Artemis,
Favored Hillary, as did divine Pallas Athena, the war-maiden.
Her brother Ares, who revels in bloody battle, followed her lead.
But Hades, swallower of souls, he of the underworld, loved the Trump,
And made his vows to Artemis and Hephaestus. However Aphrodite,
The beauteous love-goddess, the mall-shopper, stayed out of it all.
“OMG,” did she text her BFF Ianna, “like, it’s all so complex,”
And Ianna of Egypt, the short-skirted one, replied swiftly,
“Your friends are so not woke,” and Aphrodite agreed, “You’re so dope.”

And so, as a beefy defensive tackle lunges forward, three hundred eighty pounds
To clash with his offensive counterpart, equally huge, both of awesome might
Both sweat-oozers can bench three hundred iron pounds, fifty reps
As a delicate butterfly flaps its delicate wings in that still moment before
The snap, and then, without warning, is smashed between the two giants
So too Democrats and Republicans, left and right, blue and red,
Hillary and Donald, arrayed their forces opposing one another,
Preparing their strategies, their tactics, imagining with glee
The destruction of the other, may the gods help whoever is in between.

Thus it transpired until now, when trembling Chris Christie, son of Wilbur,
Gazed upon the Trump and his retinue, reclining on golden chaise lounges
In the cloud-penthouse above the city, and wondered if indeed a crack
Had appeared in his master’s unbreakable armor. What would he do?
What could he do, the Trump, master of Manhattan, with the evidence
Of his transgressions, nay his assaults, for all to see, on every channel
Repeated again and again, narrated by smarmy Wolf and holy Scottpelley,
Cronkite’s son. Manafort spoke, the friend of Putin and Yanukovich,
“Donald, enlightened one, above the rules, Billy Bush’s tape will ruin us,
O woe is us, woe is our campaign,” and he sobbed salt tears, as did
Christie and lovely Ivanka and even Jared, the slimebucket.
So too did Christie of Newark, who cried out loud, “This is not good!”

Melania spoke sweet words, “Dearest husband, and faithless son of a bitch,
May I ask you plainly how many pussies have you grabbed?” And the Trump
Understood then, saw it clearly, that his troubles were more than just one.
But it was wavy-haired Bannon who showed them the way, “Fuck this,”
He did say, in front of all, “Locker-room talk! Only snowflakes, gentle libtards
Will be offended, real men will admire the Trump, seeker of blondes,
For is he not honest? Does he not say what every man who likes woman wants?”
Glossy-lipped Ivanka, long-haired daughter of the Trump, shot back,
“And what of the women? Who, daddy, would not be off-put by your words?”
But brilliant Bannon, Breitbart’s founder, answered her in kind,
“Do not the real women of America secretly desire the Trump’s warm hands?
Do they not? I ask you, all of you!” And he was not done, fire-eyed Bannon,
“You men, you high school lettermen of old, have you not clutched the odd pussy?
And later bragged with hot breath to your teammates?” Manafort muttered,
The friend of Ukraine, “Well, no, not really,” and Jared, seeing Ivanka’s hot glare,
Shook his small head as well. But then the Trump arose from his golden chair,
That throne covered in gold leaf, with ball-and-claw feet, bought from Sotheby’s
Once the resting place for French King’s butts, they said, truly rare
Raised his own capacious keister, those two furry well-scratched globes
Squishy pink half-melons, fleshy gateway for the fragrant wind of the Trump;
He surveyed his team, looking into each’s eyes, some frightened,
Some anxious for a fight, all wondering what the Great Boss’s words would be.

“Oh my immortals, you, my boon friends, here in my Tower in the clouds,
Above the filthy masses, I have but one thing to say in this our hour of despair:
Fuck television, fuck flea-bearded Wolf and Lester of the high forehead
And even holy Scottpelley! Fuck them all to hell!” To the jean-clad Bannon he turned,
Saying, “Sweet friend, your words ring true to me, your plans are solid,
Never shall we apologize, never retreat, but rather double down, and double again
Slice through the bellies of these little news rats like a knife through butter,
And not an ordinary knife, but of gold, and purchased from Neiman Marcus,
Absurd in its cost.” Proudly the chest of Bannon puffed, and he nodded sagely.
Even childlike Chris Christie, the accountant’s son, was heartened
By these words, spoken out loud by the Trump himself, the One.
Mouse-faced Kushner then addressed the team, the son of Charles
“Dearest father-in-law, lovely Ivanka, and friends all,” he began,
“Let us plan our attack. Who shall we send forth to the plaza, to
The avenue below, where the hordes clamor, the insects of the media
With their cameras and mikes they swarm, barking questions left and right
Rude questions, annoying, personal, as if we would reveal ourselves
To the likes of them. Someone must needs sally forth below
Among the ants.”
And Artemis the chaste herself was listening, and
Caused the sun to shine through the clouds, a bright beam
Into Trump Tower, upon the golden elevator, whose doors swished open
And out strolled the Senior Advisor, shimmering in her yellow dress.

Then spoke Trump, son of Fred: “Dearest Kellyanne, I have a favor
To ask,” and little Jared grinned, showing his rodent teeth.
Seeing him gave her pause, for she knew him, knew that look,
Would mousy Jared spring a trap? She trusted him not, pursed her lips,
But instead turned her blue eyes to the Trump, took in his enormity
Showing unbreakable Loyalty, that quality the Trump honors the most,
For which he loved Kellyanne, held her dear, although not in that way.
“Oh my lord,” did she say, “what great task have you for me today?”
And with ponderous steps he crossed the room to her, placed his tiny hands
On her shoulders, causing her to gasp, and said, “Go down, and tell them
Tell them, for all to hear, that I, the Trump, I love women,
I respect them, more than anyone else can, I respect women, ask
Anyone, no one respects the weaker sex more than I,
And I shall protect them, be their father, and as I love my Ivanka
To this day she sits on my lap, so shall I love all of them.”

A thrill passed through the room, for all knew it, the Muse
Had entered the orange-haired one, “Yes, all women! The brunettes,
With dark eyes, and flame-colored redheads, and glistening blondes
Full-breasted, soft to the touch –“ but then he stopped, for
Hard-hearted Melania was listening. “Anyway, dear Kellyanne,
Let ‘em have it.” And as she left, to descend to the crowded depths,
They turned again to the television, to witness the loser Billy Bush
Sobbing, in an unmanly way, “Why should I be fired? It was not me
But the Trump that said those things, bringing me down. Why me?”
Watching, shaking his head in disgust, the Trump said only, “Sad!”


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.
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.
Even though her words should please them more than mine. From this
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
Of Houston.
Of Houston . 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.
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.
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.
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?
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.


Over the verdant earth not one kind of Strife brings discord to us,
But three: the first being War, the bastard child of Ares, the greatest of calamities,
Where the drops of young blood, combat’s sad fruit, soak the fields of battle,
Then Politics, in which great leaders marshal armies of analysts and door-knockers
Arguing, reasoning, cajoling for every vote, for the great victory
And finally, the third, football.
And finally, the third, football. For the second and most glorious of prizes
President of all the states united, leadership of all under Olympus
The two candidates embarked on silver wings, leaving their New York homes
Headed for Saint Louis, the archèd city, gateway to the American West.

As the smog-laden fingers of Dawn rose slowly in the East,
Two aircraft took off: one, a rented seven-three-seven, painted blue and white
With Hillary the Chosen on board, and the other, in glistening gold
A seven-five-seven, much bigger, where on a gold-plated throne sat
The Trump, fingering his phone, the tweets wafting in sweet-smelling airs
No apology, no explanation, but attack!
No apology, no explanation, but attack! “No one more abusive,” he typed,
Than me, he thought, “than Bill Clinton,” he typed, “far worse!”

In the cabin, where Armani-clad women compared their purses,
Strode across Persian carpet in Jimmy Choos, sipped fine Chardonnay
And the strong-stomached men drank Macallan 25 from crystal tumblers,
Jared, lovely Ivanka’s mate, asked, “Where, oh where, is the great man?”
Long-toothed Kellyanne, the campaign boss, answered him directly:
“He is on the golden Crapper, tweeting.” And all through the aircraft,
Jetting through the October chill, the word went out, front to back,
From pilot to staff to the adoring reporters of fair and balanced Fox,
“He’s tweeting! He’s tweeting!” All paused, fingers fat and delicate,
Long and diminutive, reached for their phones, to see the Words,
Patiently they waited, for their leader’s missive from the fragrant font
One hundred forty characters direct from the Trump, as if he’d said them
Himself, right to them, as if he were right in front of them, honoring them
Personally, his portentous presence before their very humble selves.

Then on all the glowing screens the brief text appeared,
The murmurs continued, the heads nodded, they smiled in rapturous joy:
“Yes, he’s right! He’s right! Bill abused those women, Paula and Kathleen
Poor Gennifer and dark-haired Monica!” Thus were the minions of the Trump armed
Against the left-leaning reporters and lying liberal analysts
Prepared to whatabout, and they believed it, all of them.
As on the floor of the wine-dark sea, where all manner of detritus falls,
To rest forever, to become homes for crabs and slippery lampreys
So the words of the Trump landed in their receptive minds, floating at first
Then sank, slowly, like the excretions of whales, forever to stay,
Nourishing their bedtime child-scaring tales of evil conspiracy.

Angry Hannity read it, and smiled, readied his nightly rant, and
Stern Lou Dobbs, along with righteous O’Reilly, they too nodded in satisfaction.
Why they hated Hillary of Yale not even they knew, but it was in their bones
Yes, Chicago-born Hillary served as First Lady, true, but what was a First Lady
But one who decided upon flowers for the Blue Room?
But one who decided upon flowers for the Blue Room?But no! Strident Hillary
Dragged them in, the pharma giants, the insurance bosses, to fix healthcare
That poor children could have medicines; how they despised her that!
A woman! An attack on their system! On their portfolios! A woman!
Oh, the salvo they would launch against her this very night, the eve
Of the great debate in the city by the river, Saint Louis of the golden arch.

Unsuspecting, unaware, at peace, confident, the Chosen of blessed Obama
Passed the time on her plane, chatting with her friend Huma, Weiner’s wife,
Through the window she peered, looking down, planning,
How she could help the dairy farmers below, in Pennsylvania,
Later as they jetted past rusty Gary, Indiana, she worked on an idea
To bring steelworker jobs back to the heartland, to strengthen unions
Find new markets for Ford and GM and Chrysler, once proud company of Lee
Over Chicago of the great Tower, she’d champion the rights of all,
Quell the unrest, quiet the crime, bring calm to a troubled city.
Policies! Policies can improve the lives of all Americans, she knew that.
Victory guaranteed, even the debate seemed a waste of time,
Useless formality, but Hillary, champion of Moot Court, wanted the win.

On the golden fifty-seven the Trump too gazed upon the American earth,
Over Pittsburgh, home of US Steel, wondered how much stock he owned,
Tariffs would bump its value, no question, he’d definitely do it
Chicago loomed, and he squinted his tanned eyelids, could he spy the gold
The Trump’s own Hotel, on North Wabash, riverside? Was that it?
Turning south, Trump Force One began its descent, passing over Springfield
Home of Lincoln, but by then the Trump had closed his weary eyes.

The campaigns had agreed upon Nobel-blessed Washington University
Deep in St. Louis, as the venue for the candidates’ single combat, in the
Athletic Center, where the Woman of Wellesley and Wharton’s Best would wrestle.
A Town Hall it would be, as if a country of three hundred million could gather
To decide the issues of the day; instead eight lucky ones carefully selected
Would represent us all. Thrice-married Martha Raddatz and Anderson, Gloria’s son,
Were charged with maintaining order. Across the great land, from lobster-rich Maine
To Silicon Valley, from taquerias in blistering New Mexico to bourbon-fueled Kentucky
Across America’s great breadth, people gathered to listen, to hear
Even in the White House, they were gathered, all around blessed Obama,
Sober Kerry and smiling Biden, brilliant Valerie Jarrett, and holy Michelle too
All wondered how the man in the red tie could get out of this one.
How would the Trump explain it? What would he say about his grabs?
Would the proud New Yorker be humbled, head hung, speak of contrition?
And in truth Kellyanne and Manafort and Bannon, they wondered too,
As did Huma and Mook and Tim Kaine, and Hillary herself. What would he say?

But Shame, the regretful one, full of self-loathing, was banished from this house.
The first question to the Trump, did his behavior make him a role model for youth?
As if he cared. “But this is locker room talk. You know, when we have a world
Where you have ISIS chopping off heads, drowning people in steel cages,
Where you have wars and horrible, horrible sights all over
And you have so many bad things happening, this is like medieval times.
We haven’t seen anything like this. The carnage all over the world!”
And that was his answer, and he stood tall, well satisfied with his words.
Backstage Chris Christie gasped, and flowing-haired Bannon smiled wide,
Kellyanne high-fived rodent-like Jared: it was done! Behind them! Case closed!
But Anderson, with the horn-rimmed glasses, persisted, “For the record, are you saying?”
And the Trump, master of wit, parried those thrusts, “I have great respect for women.
Nobody has more respect for women than I do,” and Kellyanne and lovely Ivanka nodded
As the Trump himself thought, but slyly kept these words to himself,
And nobody has more lust for women than I do!
And nobody has more lust for women than I do! Hillary of the pantsuit fired back
“This is who Donald Trump is, our country must answer: this is not who we are.”
A solid blow, well-aimed, well-fired, yet no one saw the Trump flinch
Is that the best you got, his well-tanned face, filled with contempt, seemed to say.
Backstage, Huma, Wiener’s wife, mouthed “more,” knowing, as did Mook and Podesta,
Her well-targeted words were not enough to resist the Trump’s fusillade of bluster.
“We’re also letting drugs pour through our southern border at a record clip.
ICE just endorsed me. They never endorsed a presidential candidate.
The border patrol agents, 16,500 just recently endorsed me, I understand the border.
Hillary Clinton is raising your taxes, folks, she is raising your taxes, really high
A disaster for the country.” What could stand up to that incessant barrage?
And folks! Hillary called them voters, the electorate, citizens, but the Trump
Said “folks,” and the Garth-loving masses in Alabama and Texas and Nebraska
Warmed to him, as he spoke, using words they well understood.

Yet Hillary persevered. “Let’s talk about what’s really going on here, Martha,
Because our intelligence community just came out and said in the last few days that the Kremlin, meaning Putin and the Russian government, are directing the attacks,”
And everyone yawned. Yawned! Lost interest! Went to the kitchen for Doritos!
What attacks? We didn’t feel any explosions, we saw no rampant destruction!
Then in the Trump’s mind Artemis, lover of the jack-chested Smith, Hephaestus,
Planted a vision, a scene from the grassy savannah under the African sun
An old impala munching, past its time, once sleek and simple, no longer.
Not far away, on its muscle-laden haunches, a tawny-haired lion
Trailed its victim, planning its strike, preparing to pounce
And so the Trump, feeling the feline power, moved about the stage,
Stealthily positioned himself behind Hillary, so softly, couldn’t be heard,
Though seen by millions on television, YouTube and Facebook,
The hot blood of the hungry lion filled his veins, he was closing in
He felt it! Closing for the kill! His tiny fingers outstretched, his claws, the kill!
Yes, that is right, a Great Hunter I am! – was the thought in the brain of the Trump.

What is that creep doing? Was the thought that passed through Hillary’s mind
Not unaware of her stalker, as she spoke she wondered what to do
Tell him to go back to his corner, get away from her, how would that play?
A righteous woman defending herself? Or a pushy, aggressive bitch?
And a great wave of sadness came over her, deep, ineffable,
The ceiling, the glass ceiling, she felt it now, how hard it was,
Could any woman ever break through?

Above in the sky the deathless gods observed the verbal combat,
White-armed Hera, queen of the gods, champion of white-armed Hillary
Sometimes laughing, sometimes spluttering in outrage at the Trump
Cheering on the Woman of Wellesley, reveling in her triumph,
At her side, fair-haired Phoebus Apollo, the Just, nodded sagely,
While Olympian Zeus, unquestioned king of all the gods, snoozed
And Dionysos, Lord of the Grape, danced with frenetic steps,
Celebrating victorious Hillary below.
Celebrating victorious Hillary below. Whereas Artemis with the Smith
Knew it, that an invisible shield, crafted in secret by her well-ripped lover
Kept Hillary’s blows from landing. In the press booths and studios
Across the nation the pundits spoke, as one, in harmonious chorus,
“Oh Hillary, turn around! Face the fat one and use your pointed knee,
Let it fly at his hard-to-find crotch, double him over,”
But Hillary, remembered the dictum of Michelle, revered among women,
When they go low, we go high. With that in mind Hillary continued,
Explaining immigration policy and appealing to the people’s higher nature
And in the suburbs, in living rooms with soccer balls and photos on the mantle
They listened, they approved, hated the man who grabbed their privates
But she never could she equal the speechifying of blessed Obama
Where his words soared, hers bored.
Where his words soared, hers bored. With the end of the debate,
On the spin rooms descended all, reporters and staffers alike
With a mighty and noble goal, to set perceptions, to mold reality
There was Lester with large-toothed Kellyanne, saying,
“You heard the Trump say it, that he respects women
Like no other, what more need we say?” And Lester of the great forehead
Replied with another question, “But just two days ago –”
“Locker room talk,” Kellyanne shot back, “haven’t you ever said the same?”
Taken aback, Lester, echoing Manafort, replied in stunned words,
“Well, no, not really.” “Oh come on, Lester,” the wife of Conway coyly teased,
“Not really? Really?” she goaded him, fluttering her lashes
But before he could answer the Trump himself appeared
“Oh, sir, you were so great,” Kellyanne flattered him, as only she could,
For which the great and ponderous Trump rewarded her with a grin.
“I know,” he told her, for of what use is false modesty?
“Mister Trump,’ Lester began, for that was his job, to ask the hard questions,
But before he could, the massive mound that was Christie shuffled him away.
Oh how the drinks flowed, from cases of Dom Perignon and Hennessy
Brought direct from Trump Tower aboard the golden fifty-seven
And everyone had a good time.
And everyone had a good time. Elsewhere on the Democratic side
Huma and Mook and Podesta, all of them, buttonholed reporters here and there
Not much need to spin it, the Trump – practically incomprehensible, they said,
Smiled knowing smiles. The chatter was subdued, quiet,
Hillary herself didn’t bother to appear, went back to her hotel to sleep
Some of the reporters wished they were in the other room.


Far away, on the other side of the blue planet, home of humans,
In a cold and frost-kissed land, behind thick crenelated walls
Deep in Holy Mother Russia, stately Grand Kremlin Palace rises above
The wide cobblestones of Red Square, where tanks and rockets parade.
Nearby barefoot St. Vasili is honored by a majestic onion-domed cathedral
And ancient, mystic Spasskaya Tower guards the enormous fortress
Indeed, all the children of the Motherland, from Sochi to freezing Vladivostok.
The Kremlin, home of the mighty Tsars, from Ivan, called the Terrible
Prussian-born Catherine, and Alexander, the conqueror of Napoleon,
The tragic Nicholas and his family, murdered in the Urals, the palace
Usurped by Lenin, then the butcher Stalin, later Khrushchev the shoe-slapper
Then Brezhnev, the perestroikist Gorbachev, beloved in the west,
Hated in his own land. Five expansive halls, seven hundred great rooms
From here the power of the lords of East stretched from ocean to ocean.
In one of the rooms, deep in the stucco’d palace, far from public eyes, was
Vladimir Putin, the great tactician, son of Vladimir, Leningrad-born.
Worthy was Putin, son of a submariner, educated in Soviet law
With youthful zeal served his country in the Committee for State Security
Defending the Motherland against capitalist sympathizers in Dresden.
Mourn did he not after the Fall, the end of the Union
But rather it was to him Mother Russia turned, to rebuild, to repair,
And to wreak righteous Slavic revenge upon the perfidious West.
Nor did he shirk his awesome responsibility.

Putin sat at his oak desk in his windowless, oak-paneled office,
Facing the empty oak conference table before him,
And the chessboard Vaino, his loyal chief of staff, set before him.
Not yet a grandmaster of the game, yet a master of the world,
Crafty Putin considered his next move.
Crafty Putin considered his next move. “Pora,” he whispered,
“It is time,” and picked up the phone. With strong words he commanded
To his assistant, Belov, who’d come from Krasnoyarsk, a Siberian
“Send them in!” and three dark-suited men appeared.
“Send them in!” and three dark-suited men appeared. “Volodya!”
They exclaimed. Putin answered them warmly. “Gorya, Seryozha, Sasha,”
He greeted them, extending his well-tanned arms to
The emperors of espionage, his most trusted lieutenants,
Chiefs of the valiant secret armies fighting the evil Americans.
Putin spoke, the submariner’s son, risen to rule in the tsars’ fortress,
“Tell me,” he said softly, “of our progress.”
“Tell me,” he said softly, “of our progress.” And to their master
The trio spoke as one. “Vladimir Vladimirovich, greatest of all comrades,
We recall your command to us, a scant year ago, seated at this very table
Your words we remember as if you said them clearly today,
Of how opportunity presents itself but rarely, and unexpectedly,
Victors seize it, as a hawk in flight grabs a quail in its talons
And you, and you alone, oh great tactician, you saw it clearly
No clear leaders, squabbling in both parties; we could
Disrupt the Enemy’s elections! For our Motherland, for our home,
For our careers, for glory, nothing exceeds it in importance,
Not food, not the crisp winter’s breath on a white St Petersburg night
No pleasure should deter us from confusing and confounding
The hapless dwellers of Lincoln’s land. Toil by day, sweat past dusk,
Like Kutuzov at Borodino we turn a twenty-year old defeat to victory:
That was your sacred charge to us.”
That was your sacred charge to us.” Putin nodded, bade them continue.
“Greatest of all comrades, tsar of the tsars, our labors are many
The meme-masters of Savushkina Street photoshopping ‘round the clock,
Did you know…?” they grinned, malice in their eyes.
“Know what?” Putin countered. “About the Pope’s politics?
How he has endorsed our man, your servant, the Trump?”
And the pair showed Putin a picture, cunningly crafted, so real
Of Francis, the holy Argentine, seeming to lay hands on the Trump,
Blessing him, endorsing him, instead of the Woman of Wellesley.
“And placement?” asked Putin. “Oh lord of Russian lords,”
Continued the spies, “carefully we have segmented the voters,
Analyzing the rolls, building the database, finding their Facebooks
Their Twitters, their Instagrams, their Snapchats,
Millions of false identities we have created, friended the voters
Placed this meme and so many others, inflaming their passions.”
“Tell me,” said Putin, choosing his words, “not of activity, but results.”
Gorya, Sasha and Seryozha shot back, “We are winning! The polls show it,
Our man Trump pulls ahead every day!”
Our man Trump pulls ahead every day!” “Incredible!” breathed Putin.
“Scarcely could I have believed it possible, yet here it is before us.
Well have you done, comrades, know I hold you in the highest esteem.”
And broadly they smiled, their hearts warmed by their master’s praise.
“But now, my dear friends, we need something more. A bomb!
Not a real one, but one that will cause everyone in hateful America
To take pause, to reflect, to consider who they really desire
In the House of White.”
In the House of White.”And as wolves hot in the chase
Bear their jagged teeth in anticipation of the attack, so too did the spies
Grin, imagining the glorious kill. Gorya, Sasha and Seryozha answered, again as one,
“The tape? The tape? Is it time to release the tape from the Trump’s visit?
When he stayed, right here in Moscow, invited some lovely ladies of the night
To visit his room, of course they were our agents, well-trained sparrows
Oh how he laughed, took his pleasure when they wet the bed,
The very one in which slept blessed Obama, and Michelle, years before.
Oh, let us show it, oh the chaos! Oh, the joy we would take!”
“Pee-pee tape!” shouted Sasha. “Pee-pee tape!” Seryozha answered,
“Time to release the pee-pee tape,” Gorya sang in his deep bass,
In perfect Russian contrapuntal harmony. “No,” mighty Putin
Waved away their request. “Then what, oh master?” they asked,
Puzzled by Putin’s words. “We will save that for later,
To pull the strings on our Trump, he will do our bidding.
No, it is time to release the trove.”
No, it is time to release the trove.”“The emails?” they asked.
“The emails,” Putin confirmed. “The thirty thousand, all of them,
That your valiant coders, the bit-pullers, secreted out from Hillary
Her server, clintonemail.com, the very one. We shall cast Doubt
Upon the Wellesley Woman, hers will have second thoughts, she will
Lose the election, and shall the Trump, the blowhard –
Lose the election, and shall the Trump, the blowhard – our blowhard –
The orange-haired one, he shall win the White House.”
The spies gasped at this, recognizing the brilliance of Putin’s plan.
“We shall, sir!” shouted the triad of spooks, saluting smartly,
But Putin the order-giver was not yet finished with them. “And make sure,
That no one knows it was us, use the white-haired one, leave no trace,
Go! And do this next great task, attack with stealth and surprise,
The Motherland thanks you!” The agency-heads stood and made their exit,
Leaving the grand strategist alone in his room with his thoughts.
He had his own reasons for hating Hillary. Just five years before,
Russia had its own elections, and mighty Putin stood for the presidency.
Not that there was any doubt of course! For the people of Russia loved him,
Truly loved him, except for a few that did not. They, ungrateful ones,
Not appreciating Russia’s economic miracle, rise of the oil oligarchs,
Marched in the streets, with banners. Hillary, then blessed Obama’s
Secretary of State, full of righteous rage, from oh-so-moral America
Dared, dared! to question the election! To suggest they were not fair!
That ballots had been rigged! That Putin had stolen it!
Of course, the United Russia Party sent out teams back then,
Made sure the fate of All the Russias was secure, in Putin’s steady hands.
Still – Putin remembered what she said and vowed to get even.
The woman! She had interfered with Russia’s internal affairs! The woman!
Russia’s leader, man of many talents, held a grudge, a thirst for revenge
That would be satisfied.
That would be satisfied.Was it large-skulled Sasha, or Seryozha
Or was it Gorya, the many-medaled General, the hard-liner
That made the first call, the first in a long chain? Who knows?
But as a car starts with a turn of a key, fuel pours into the pistons
The crankshaft starts to turn, sparks set off little bursts of power
Belching smoke from the exhaust, so too one thing led to another.
In Berlin, near the Ku-damm a USB stick was handed off,
Neither person knowing the other, then passed on
To a flight attendant headed to foggy Heathrow, and then at night
To a surly London cabbie, a disenchanted actor, failed student
Angry at the world, logged on to his super-encrypted VPN,
Uploaded the thumb drive’s content to a server,
Shortly the contents were viewed by a bespectacled German,
Once a Red, then a Green, now consumed with anti-establishment spite
And she copied the emails again,
And she copied the emails again, to Wikileaks.org.
Within a few hours, before a glowing laptop, white-haired Julian scrolled
Amazed at what he saw, Hillary’s private correspondence
Email after email, from Huma and John and Mook
Conversations with Donna Brazile and Assistant Secretaries galore,
And of course, with pure Chelsea, and Bill, who’d shared cigars with Monica.
Gold! Pure gold!
Gold! Pure gold!Julian the Ecuadorian exulted, no longer an Aussie
His home was the Embassy, where he’d taken citizenship
Even though he’d never been to the land of the long-lost Incas
Never visited mountainous Quito, in Pichincha, or Guayaquil
By the river, for in the Embassy he’d hidden, from the finger-pointing Swedes
Who’d accused him (bogus!) untoward behavior to a pair of ladies.
In his mind he and he alone saw the corruption and warmongering
The evils of the West, led by the perfidious Americans, by Bill, Hillary’s mate,
And George, son of George, and even blessed Obama he deemed evil,
And why not, for Obama had approved the extradition warrant,
For him the Americans had no love, he’d printed Ms. Manning’s papers
Exposing secret stuff. They’d forced Julian into his South American refuge,
Far from the jungle.
Far from the jungleAnd now before him was history itself!
Such a moment! From his exile, deep in the center of London,
He could influence the American election, slam Hillary, daughter of Hugh
Drive her to defeat, send her in shame back to Chappaqua.
Still – he hesitated – that would mean the odious Trump would win
So, just to ensure he accomplished his task, ever-watching Artemis
Sent Aphrodite, hardly dressed, to his tiny room rubbing his thin shoulders
Whispering in his ear, “Publish it, little dude, publish it …
Press the beckoning enter key, submit, then I shall submit to you,
O rebel of the web, truth-teller.” Her hands caressed trembling Julian
His breaths became deeper, faster, his pale face reddened.
His breaths became deeper, faster, his pale face reddened.No one can resist
The charms of the love-goddess, so beautiful she that all men
Succumb, willingly do her bidding, that she may bestow favors,
Oh! The words she spoke: “Handsome man of the outback,
My fingers are drawn to your pale body, I heave at your approach,
So awesomely built your gnarly self, and is that the trace of a little white beard
On your little white face?”
On your little white face?” And the key was pressed.
No sooner had she spoken than the emails flowed through the great internet,
To fair and balanced Fox to the liberal media, CBS to NBC and the Post
Rush and Tucker and Hannity and Bill O and the rest fairly leapt on them
While for his part the white-haired one prepared to leap on the goddess,
Who vanished that moment, saying only these words,
Who vanished that moment, saying only these words,“As if …!”


Around the block the red hats snaked, hissing in hot-breathed anticipation
For entry to the sanctum, holy of holies, to hear their master’s peroration.
Inside the auditorium, all was still, paced not even a stray alley cat
Not one creature was stirring, not even Cohen, the soon-to-be rat.
The MAGA banners were hung from the rafters with care,
Knowing that corpulent Trump soon would be there.

And where sat those twin fat-oozing spheres, the rump of Trump?
Resting in the Green Room, as he consumed a Big Mac or two or three
Washing them down with Dr. Pemberton’s and Atlanta’s pride,
A fizzing Coca-Cola, wonderful with fries. For the Trump never
Touched alcohol, it killed his brother, Fred Junior; but
From somewhere, perhaps from Jared the weasel, a golden bong appeared
And the lips of Trump, awaiting his moment, took a hit or two or three.

The doors were opened, and in flew the crowd,
Shouting the Trump’s name, and oh were they loud,
White were their faces, nary a degree to be found,
Their necks red like their caps, and their waists so very round.
Seething with resentment against those oh-so-smart elites,
Hating science, immigrants, and the poor, they took their oversized seats.
Despised they the graduates, making them feel so stupid,
Perhaps why for sucking Bud they were very well suited.

In the eighth row, craning his neck, clad in red plaid flannel, Johnny Jones,
Big John, they’d called him, played ball in Birmingham, lettered in it,
Still had the sweater, wore it all these decades later,
Sometime taxi man, sometime mechanic, his memory failing,
Forgetting this month – again – that pesky child support
For his bitch ex-wife. Not far away sat Amy, her botox’d lips bulging,
Once she’d reigned, prom queen of Elmore, everyone loved her,
Now her thin bones were sheathed in rippling layers of cellulite,
She feared and hated anyone with different colored skin,
Resented that she couldn’t even say it anymore, political correctness,
Only used the n-word in the safety of her living room,
With unjudging porcelain gnomes and Chia pets, and a cat, to hear.
A few rows back Bobby Rex of Montgomery unfolded his white hood,
He’d don it for Donald, sure that the Trump would approve,
After all, hadn’t the Trump’s own father marched with the Klan?
Wouldn’t the Knights soon return to restore the natural order of things?
So each in their own way awaited their orange-haired hope.

From her shining citadel in Dodger-less Brooklyn Hillary herself watched,
The rally broadcast on CNN and of course on trustworthy Fox.
“So deplorable are they all,” she muttered. “Deplorable!”
Black-haired Huma, wearing hooped earrings, Weiner’s wife,
Hillary’s most trusted, a rising star, proclaimed venerated Time,
Perked up, thought a second. “You should use that,”
“What?” wondered Hillary, and turned to her great friend, “Deplorable!”
Suggested Huma, and that made Hillary ponder. “Hmm! Perhaps I will,”
The Chosen One, anointed by blessed Obama himself, nodded to her friend.

And then: there he was on the stage, the Trump, the one, hero
To the hourly wagers, the Kramdens and the Bunkers,
Wild went they, shouting his name! The joy, the unbridled ecstasy,
To be in the presence of the Trump!
To be in the presence of the Trump! He spoke these very words to them:
“Look, having nuclear—my uncle was a great professor and scientist
And engineer, Dr. John Trump at MIT; good genes, very good genes,
OK, very smart, the Wharton School of Finance, very good, very smart!”
The room rumbled with applause, and the walls trembled.
“O great Trump,” they sounded as one, “Oh we hear, get your drift
Blessed by the Creator with bountiful genetic gifts!”
Blessed by the Creator with bountiful genetic gifts!” He continued,
“You know, if you’re a conservative Republican, if I were a liberal,
If, like, OK, if I ran as a liberal Democrat,”
If, like, OK, if I ran as a liberal Democrat,”and they all laughed,
The very thought! The Trump a bleeding heart! A taxer and spender!
The crowd responded, laughing, crying with unbridled joy,
“Never, O Beloved, would you sully your conservative flag
But tell us, O son of Fred, explain to us why you brag,
Why do you recite your resume at every stride?
Beware, beware, O Trump, the cardinal sin of pride!”

Then thoughtful Trump, hearing their plaintive cries, answered,
“They would say I’m one of the smartest people anywhere in the world
It’s true! —but when you’re a conservative Republican they try
Oh, do they do a number,” and everyone turned to the press in the back,
Bastards, twisters of the truth, their truth, immune to facts.
“That’s why I always start off: Went to Wharton, was a good student,
Went there, went there, did this, built a fortune—” they turned to one another
Nodded: of course! “Yes, we see it now, O how they lie,
Blitzer and Lester and Anderson and holy Scottpelley? Why?
Knowing what you’ve done what they couldn’t, you O Trump,
Having to prove yourself, through every hoop you must jump!
So unfair! “You know I have to give my like credentials all the time,
Because we’re a little disadvantaged…” Oh the crowd was with him now!
“So disadvantaged you are, O Trump, we groan at your anguished pleas
No different than Harlem’s starving children, LA’s drug-addicted babies!”

Pity, mother of watery tears, flowed forth to the stage, but
Nothing could hold back the glorious rhetoric from the child of Cicero.
“But you look at the nuclear deal, the thing that really bothers me
It would have been so easy, and it’s not as important as these lives are
Nuclear is powerful; my uncle explained that to me many, many years ago.”
Big basso profundo Johnny Jones, he saw it then, the light in his brain shone,
Leapt to his feet, and sang out, “Yes, yes! All my life I never knew,
I lived in darkness, unaware, the facts in my mind so very few,
But now, the torch has been lit, I see the whole world anew,
O transcendent moment! Nuclear! Powerful! All has shifted,
The veil shrouding my abandoned intellect – lifted!”

And Amy in lovely counterpoint, Elmore’s lady of the cats,
Opened her botoxed lips, in mellifluous mezzo-soprano replied,
“Nuclear! O Trump, dweller in mine fantasies, split my atoms,
Master of cosmic mysteries, enter my chasm,
But alas! It cannot be, for cat-eyed Melania has snared you,
My hopes must needs be modest, find someone else to bare-screw
Yet for thou, or someone like thee will I ever pine,
Can there ever be one like you that would be mine?”

Johnny and Amy gazed from afar at one another, love sparked,
Ignited by the burning words of the man, nay demigod,
United in adoration, joined in wondrous rapture.
And the Trump, behind his podium, bulletproof just in case, smiled.
But he had not completed the lesson, oh, no, more to impart,
The stream of his wandering consciousness had not yet run dry.

“The power and that was 35 years ago; he would explain the
Power of what’s going to happen and he was right—who would have thought?”
Yes, who would have thought an MIT PhD would be right,
“But when you look at what’s going on with the four prisoners
Now it used to be three, now it’s four—but when it was three and even now,
I would have said it’s all in the messenger; fellas, and it is fellas because,
You know, they don’t, they haven’t figured that the women are smarter right now
Than the men, so, you know, it’s gonna take them about another 150 years
But the Persians are great negotiators, the Iranians are great negotiators,
So, and they, they just killed, they just killed us.”
So, and they, they just killed, they just killed us.” At these words
Bobby Rex felt a thrill, now was his moment, he threw on his white mitre
His pure tenor rang out through the hall, “O betrayal! O treachery!
So horrible the crimes, so detestable, not like your simple lechery!
Superhuman with needs to match, everyone here can relate,
Even long-tressed Melania, I’m sure, your voluptuous mate.”
At this the Slovenian beauty shot Bobby Rex a hard glance,
But he pressed on, the roaring crowd gave him another chance.
Even as the security guards came, hearing the newsmen hiss,
Some might think it unseemly, a proud Klansman in their midst.
“O orange-haired hope of the downtrodden, like me, a poor, poor white,
What’s to be done with these traitors? I say the evildoers must you smite!”

That electrified the heaving throng! The chants began, thundered in the hall,
“Lock her up! Lock her up! Lock her up!”
“Lock her up! Lock her up! Lock her up!” Back in Brooklyn she shivered,
The Chosen, as did all in her gleaming palace of privilege, of progress,
When, they asked themselves, did politics come to this?
A screaming mob, led a raging demagogue, sanity in doubt,
Wasn’t supposed to be like this! Mouths dropped in shock,
Seeing the incoherent one speak, and how the crowd loved it,
How could it be? And for a moment, a terrifying image,
Of herself, rotting behind cold, pitiless bars in Attica, or Sing Sing,
Filled her mind.
Filled her mind.The Trump grew weary, well-tanned eyes narrowed, strained
But determined was he, more to impart to those that loved him,
And if it was Hillary they wanted him to speak of, so be it.
“Hillary Clinton has perfected the politics of personal profit and theft.
She ran the State Department like her own personal hedge fund
Doing favors for oppressive regimes, and many others, in exchange for cash.”
Enraged, the multitude roared like a thousand angry bears,
“Lock her up! Lock her up!” Onward he continued, his voice never faltering
“Together, she and Bill made $153 million giving speeches to lobbyists!
CEOs, and foreign governments in the years since 2001!”
Could the auditorium hold this seething righteous supernova?

Then, a tiny voice in the balcony, a sweet young lass, all alone,
Ventured to say, “Isn’t that what Bernie is saying?
And haven’t you, O great Trump, paid those parasites, the lobbyists?”
At once they fell on her, beat her with their angry fists
Showing her that the Trump could in no way be like the white-haired Vermonter.
“Get her out of here,” ordered the Trump. And she was gone.

Could any speech by the Trump leave out Benghazi?
Ten times they’d investigated, ten times! At every one
They called long-suffering Hillary, the same questions, the same outrage,
How could she let it happen? Bony-faced Gowdy the most vicious
Hammering accusations over and over,
Hammering accusations over and over, And yet they found nothing.
But fine fodder for the Trump! As a teenager holds a match
Before an aerosol can, fascinated by the streaming flame,
Yet unaware of setting the living room curtains on fire,
So the Trump unleashed his last, furious fusillade:
“Our late Ambassador, Chris Stevens. He was left helpless to die
As Hillary Clinton soundly slept in her bed, when the phone rang at
3 o’clock in the morning, she was sleeping.”
The horror! How could she sleep at three in the morning?
“Ambassador Stevens and his staff in Libya made hundreds of requests for security.
Hillary Clinton’s State Department refused them all.
She started the war that put him in Libya,
Denied him the security he asked for, then left him there to die.”
They screamed, they yelled, they stomped their work boots
But he held out his tiny misshapen hands, waited for quiet,
The crowd would not be still, the raging thunder persisted,
Until they got the idea. The Trump left them with inspiring words,
“We are going to make America safe again.
We are going to make America great again – and great again
For everyone.” With that the Trump tromped off the stage.

Dumbstruck were the reporters, the analysts, the proud pundits, the experts,
They knew not what to say, their stentorian voices choked, were mute.
As the grinning initiates, newly minted acolytes of the golden-haired one
Streamed forth upon the plaza, back into the light of the day,
One timid follower of Edward R. Murrow gathered up her courage,
Held her microphone up high and approached Big Johnny Jones,
Now arm in tumescent arm with Elmore’s long-ago prom queen.
“What, oh what, is it about the Trump that so captures you?”
She really wanted to know, so did so many, they wondered at it.
Back in Brooklyn they all inched forward in their plush leather chairs,
For that was the question whose answer had so long eluded them.
Big John just answered, “Uh, what?” and so she clarified,
“The Trump, his facts are wrong, his sentences, senseless,
His words random, and hateful. Why would you all love him?”
“Oh, well,” he chuckled, in his laugh there was more than a little spite,
For once – for once! – the smart ones didn’t understand him!
“You see,” he answered, “The Trump speaks to us in altogether new ways,
His words do not matter, we don’t care about them, they do not faze
His spirit, his love for us, he communicates in ways you cannot know,
Beyond the ability of your simple mind, you liberal minnow.”
But that did not deter the young journalist, she did not flinch,
“Did you know,” bravely she shot back, “the Trump, once a Democrat?”
“Hah!” chortled Big John, and Amy joined in, “not in my universe!”

So inspired was he by her, that he could not restrain his basso,
Big John, quarterback and cornerback, beloved by his coach Big Jim,
So much so that Big Jim persuaded Miss Elkins to hold John back
Year after year, Jim’s manly appeal too much for her spinster shyness.
His booming voice bursting into song, Big John began,
“In our world, the man leaves every morning at eight
Works all day, goes to the bar, comes home late,
Cheers the Tide on Saturdays, more beer from his Lazy-Boy perch
Suffers a pounding hangover during Sunday church –
A small and happy world we occupy, kids, dad and mom
A good life, a solid life, worthy of a fifties sitcom!”
And Amy, her full-throated voice in full flower continued,
“Love lives in our home, in all our homes, in our neighborhood,
The happy housewife all day she prepares her husband’s food
How lucky we are, surrounded by our pure kind of folk,
Who cares the credit card companies say we’re all broke?
Good people, friends just like us, pose no threat
Man, wife, two children, yard, dog and rusting swing set.
A small and happy world we occupy, kids, dad and mom
A good life, a solid life, worthy of a fifties sitcom!”

Then: a trio, as white-hooded Bobby Rex joined in,
“O the Trump, answer to our prayers! Making America great,
Putting things back the way they used to be, that’s your fate.”
The reporter did not respond, could not think of a question,
As if she were talking to aliens from another world,
With a philosophy beyond her stunned comprehension.

In living color on CNN they all saw it, Hillary, Mook and Podesta
Huma and Bill and Donna, they took it all in, the scene unfolding.
“How,” wondered Bill aloud, speaking for all, “do we fight that?”


The woman of Wellesley stood, excused herself,
Went into her private chambers, the inner sanctum,
White, bereft of any furniture save a single kneeler,
Lit from high above by a brilliant shining orb,
A place for her to commune with the immortal Olympians.
Closing the door, she knelt, took out her ivory cell phone,
Dismissed a few cat videos, read an email or two, then
Dialed a secret number, addressed words to Hera,
“Hear me, Queen of the Gods! O Goddess who reigns on high
If ever I pleased you, with my love and keen devotion,
Show me your love, protect me from this pretender,
Pay back my enemies now, with great humiliation!”
Her prayer flew through the chilly skies to the sacred peak
Where the Thunderer’s wife, on the thirteenth green, heard it.
To her husband white-armed Queen Hera flew at once,
Partly for Hillary, mostly because she trailed by several strokes;
For what use is there being a goddess if you cannot be a poor sport?
She found the Sovereign of the Gods watching television,
Giants versus Vikings, sipping a divine brew full of foam
When Hera whispered in his ear, and his great visage paled.
He nodded, waited until the punt, fourth and twenty, then stepped outside.

On board the Trump’s golden aircraft, streaking through the sky
Cohen, the future rat, sought an audience with his lord.
From the aft of the plane, he tiptoed forward
“Mister Trump!” he squeaked, his nose crinkled.
Others heard, mouse-like Jared and long-tressed Ivanka among them
But the Trump paid him no heed; the son of Fred’s rule was
You call lawyers, they don’t call you.
You call lawyers, they don’t call you. Far above,
Zeus the cloud-gatherer arose, commanded Aeolus
Master of the four winds, Zephyrus of the west,
Notus of the south, Boreas from the cold north, and
Eurus in the east, to loose their breaths, all at once.
Nor did they fail their lord; somewhere over Cincinnati
A black-clouded storm arose.

A black-clouded storm aros The golden plane lurched
Spilling some Kristal, and Mona, flight attendant to the Trump
Asked them to take their seats, fasten their belts
Crafted from the finest Corinthian leather,
One hundred steps to complete, a full day for each
Nothing like them anywhere else, really the best.

Neither her words of caution nor the storm stayed the brave advocate.
O Lawyer, my Lawyer! With motions and suits thou dost protect us!
Briefs and injunctions, litigation! Thy power is great, thy magic strong,
And should be for thirty-three percent.
Cohen, loyal Cohen, back then he worshipped the Trump,
For the Trump had made a man of the Long Islander,
Snatching him up from chasing ambulances,
Handing out business cards at all hours in emergency rooms.
How many sharp-edged cease and desists had he fired off
In service of the Trump? Bravely he’d stood up,
Faced down the schools of the Trump, who’d been asked
To release transcripts of the totally unfair grades
Those biased and prejudiced educators had given the child Trump.
No, Cohen, the True Believer, he would not rest
Not when he was in the service of the Trump.
Even as the plane bounced to and fro the son of Maurice
Struggled forward, briefcase held tightly to his chest,
“Mister Trump!” plaintively he called his master,
Who frowned and reluctantly bade him sit next to him.
As the swift plane continued through turbulent winds,
The soon to be rat sat, bathing in the presence of the Trump,
Opened his briefcase, and spoke softly,
So that only the son of Fred could hear.

“We have a problem,” he started, and no sooner spoken
Then did the Trump reply with these words, “Fix it then.”
But this nugget of wisdom did not satisfy the future rat.
“Sir,” Cohen persisted, “she’s asking for more money.”
The Trump furrowed his brows. “Who? Which?” he asked,
Glancing up at icy-eyed Melania, hoping she hadn’t heard.
She stared straight back at him, through him, chilling his soul.
He groaned, Cohen’s timing was always terrible,
“Can’t this wait,” he mumbled though scowling fat lips
“No sir!” replied Cohen, a little too loudly.
Then, shuffling some papers, he uttered her name:
Then, shuffling some papers, he uttered her name: “Stormy.”

As a bolt of Zeus’ divine lightning illuminates the dark night
So now memories raced through the mind of the Trump,
Of a chance meeting, years ago competing at a golf course
By shimmering Lake Tahoe, at Harrah’s, with five hundred rooms.
Cat-eyed Melania, his wife of eighteen blissful months, stayed home
Taking care of the new baby; and the Trump looked forward
To a quiet weekend, cavorting with lovely Karen the Playmate
And a little golf. Such he deserved, as he’d just celebrated his sixtieth
So many years since he’d emerged, the union of Fred and Dorothy;
And he wanted a present, or several, if possible, and it was always possible.

And so it became a weekend of glory! Even for the Trump!
For even as he finished with Karen, even as he was spent
His precious core regenerated as he drove the golf cart.
His shirt emblazoned with the Great Seal of Trump,
And his motto, were they words of the great Roman, Cicero?
Or the stoic Seneca perhaps? Or did they hearken back to Plato,
Who likened our lives to a dark shadow-filled cave?
No: his own immortal phrase embroidered!
No: his own immortal phrase embroidered! “Never concede!”

Out on the grassy course his roving eyes alit on well-endowed Stormy
The famous actress, headliner of so many celluloid classics
Like Dripping Wet Sex and of course Breast Friends.
That day she peered at him over Chanel sunglasses
Opened her mouth, her tongue floating slowly over glossy lips;
And the Trump’s fast-beating heart was filled with hot desire.
With Melania home, he invited the flowing-tressed blonde to dinner.
The starlet did not decline, she graced the Trump with a smile,
Thinking a billionaire’s attention was nothing to ignore.
Of course, she knew of the Trump, knew of his wives, Ivana, Marla
And their huge settlements and spacious Manhattan condos!
Not knowing who else would come, she donned a modest outfit
But some buttonholes were left unfilled. Every hair curled,
Mascara and eyeliner applied, her silken lips reflecting the sunset.
Finally, she declared herself ready; and as a professional, she knew it to be so.
A note under the door! Her name embossed on the envelope!
“Running late,” could it be the Trump’s own writing?
“Meet me in my penthouse, number sixteen o three.”
She narrowed her eyes, pursed her collagen-enhanced lips
Stormy, she knew what was going on! She paused …
But deterred was she not, confidently to the elevator she strode,
Met at the door by steadfast Keith, captain of the guard
Did he lick his lips? Take in his breath sharply?
He slid the card key through and let her in, without a knock.

Feigning shock, the nymph Stormy gasped, put her soft hand to her face,
Discovering the Trump had not dressed for dinner, but in pajamas instead.
A white-cloth’d table was perfectly set by the TV, gold-trimmed glasses
Slim candles flickered, setting the mood for his lovely guest.

Dinner was served, oysters with fresh carrots, delicacies aplenty.
Chomping on his meal the Trump posed Stormy a question,
“I’d love to have you on The Apprentice,” he suggested.
“Highest ratings, great exposure, nothing like it anywhere!”
Fluttering her eyelashes, she said only, “Hmmm,
I’d rather you have me in Monte Carlo, Capri, Macao…”
Her dark eyes met his as she quietly uncrossed her shimmering legs
And at that his lusty fantasies were stirred, oh, she enticed him!
Bewitched was the Trump, held fast in her tightening spell.

After dinner they took to the couch, and when she wasn’t looking
He washed a blue pill down with a Pepsi, not Diet this time, treating himself,
And of course, she saw it, saw all, knew what was coming, and who.
They chatted while they waited, watched the Discovery Channel.
After a time, his ardor rose, on cue, and the zipper sank.
Did she, he inquired, wish to view the true Donald,
His pride, his joy, governor of his life, much desired by the fairer sex?
Yes, her husky voice replied at once, show me the great Donald! Now!
And there it was! She gasped: noble it was, like a wild forest mushroom
A hefty-trunked Shiitake, perhaps, with a delicate round cap?
Or a wide-spreading Portobello, favored by grillers?
No, more like a pulsing, rose-like chanterelle, beloved of fungi!
Her eyes agape, how could she, graced among women, resist?
Why would she, him with jets and homes and billions?
Protection? Certainly not! Against what? With the Orange One! And besides,
Her latex allergy. Driven by hot passion, sweat-covered bodies entwined,
Stormy’s, thin and lithe,
Stormy’s, thin and lithe, his, not so much.

The Trump’s heart raced; his pores oozed, he nigh exploded!
As horny Stormy joyfully, proudly received the essence of Trump.
Still bewitched, still ensnared by her wiles, he grabbed the remote
Finding – best of all – Shark Week on the flat screen.
A wondrous, glorious weekend! Sex & Golf! Golf & Sex! Sex & Golf!
Must call Stormy back! Must do it all again!

“Mister Trump?” inquired Cohen, “are you all right?”
But the Trump was still lost in that enchanted weekend,
Lustrous Stormy, and Karen the Playmate, and others,
The mighty Donald, his oaken core, had not let him down!
“Mister Trump?” again that annoying voice disturbed his reverie,
And again, the breath of Zephyrus rocked the swift plane.
“If this comes out now … so close to the election …”
And the Trump, wise among men, got the message.
Sweet Stormy was blackmailing him, the Trump and
For a moment he felt a tinge of sadness; O Stormy, what could have been!
Yet he harbored no resentment, understood, even; he’d have done the same
True loyalty, he knew, is illusory; at best, fleeting.
True loyalty, he knew, is illusory; at best, fleeting. And money is money.

Perhaps someday even Cohen would turn, or Melania. “How much?”
The orange-haired son of Fred wanted to know. “Half a mill,”
Was the response, drawing no more than a shrug
From the Trump’s dandruff-strewn shoulders. “No way!”
Then he thought a moment, and then another.
Finally, he said these words, these very words:
“You insult me, Michael; you insult me!” Cohen, flustered, answered
“Sir! Why would you say such, Mister Trump, my liege lord?”
Holding his hand to his chest, he continued, “To you I am true!
Right here, on my thin-walled heart, would I take a bullet for you!”
“Then why, Michael, do you bring me this demand? Knowing
I never take the first offer? Knock it down! Use your powers:
All that I taught you, all that I gave you, my fixer
Never give in, hold to your guns, never concede!
Threaten, cajole, blackmail, do what you need!”
“Yes, Mister Trump,” the loyal lawyer responded in kind;
“Then pay it, but from one of your accounts.”
“Mister Trump!” exclaimed the shocked Cohen. “Why should I –?”
“Do it,” he repeated his command, adding, “Set up a shell,
Hide everything, you know how to do it! Everything you have
Is from me! Right? Isn’t that right? I’ll pay you back!”
“Okay, Mister Trump!” little Michael replied giddily, pleased
To have the confidence of the Trump. He returned to his seat
Followed by the eyes of ever-watchful Melania.

The laptop opened, and timid Cohen transformed,
Once the Trump’s lap dog, now a pit bull on Outlook,
Composing vicious, frightful emails, filing angry lawsuits, not just one
Demands for decades of documents, oh, the expense of discovery!
Designed to intimidate, paint poor Stormy into a corner
Defamation of character, libel, slander, the Trump’s mental anguish
The raging advocate, fierce as fire, hurled his motions
One fusillade after another, and they had their effect:
Reeling under his litigious barrage, she cowered, cried, begged it to stop
With every harsh writ, the more dark despair consumed her;
Then: an ironclad non-disclosure agreement sent; and a new number
One hundred thirty thousand dollars.
One hundred thirty thousand dollars. To which she agreed.


Far above the land of men, on the lofty peak of windy Olympus,
The bitter struggle raged, and of all the immortal gods and goddesses
Only Ares found joy in it, he the god of war, fed on the conflict,
Strengthened by the battle, invigorated, as were his trusted henchmen,
Rout and Chaos, and Carlson too.
Rout and Chaos, and Carlson too.Sing to me, you Muses, immortal divas
You whose divine screams put to shame Motown and MTV,
You, Muses, whose gentle shrieks chronicle the doings of the gods
Hey Muses: Spill it.
Hey Muses: Spill it. White-armed Hera, consort to mighty Zeus, the Thunderer,
From the mountain she issued orders, directed her loyal ones, her immortals,
Frustrate the thains of the Trump! And from peachy Atlanta to Seattle,
Iowa to frozen Maine, wingèd Hermes riding the wind,
Took up the queen’s challenge, roused the faithful.
But not without problems was he, for on his way to Madison,
Wisconsin’s capital, between two blue lakes, his shoes
O, those divine sneakers that gifted him with fast flight,
One golden knot with perfect bow came untied,
Or did playful Aphrodite in her mischief pull on the bow? Maia’s son
Crashed in Lake Huron, the gods’ messenger skipped across the water
Right past the Badger State, home of the Packers, Lombardi’s team.
Later he would regret that.
Later he would regret that Apollo, the wise one, the reasoner,
With unconquerable logic he guided the pens of the influencers,
Articles in Foreign Policy and The New Republic, brilliant all,
Masterful induction, clever inference and indisputable disputation
Read and savored by the choice elite few. With deft arguments
Apollo’s words, asked, how could anyone vote for the Orangeman?
And in haughty Boston and through the halls of Stanford and Harvard,
They read, sniffed their approval, and watched PBS of the high falutes.

But the iron-worker Hephaestus and lusty Artemis,
Their approach, so different.
Their approach, so different. A tiny little germ, a virus,
A puff from Artemis’ sweet cheeks, and into Hillary’s body
Pneumonia, they said, and then – horrors! – the
Woman of Wellesley tripped getting into her limo, and
Happy Hannity hurrahed, so frail must she be! Songs of joy they sang,
All the right-thinking rags: unfit! Diseased! they cried!
And Big Bill O’Reilly, so haughty, admonished us all, every one of us,
In somber tones reminding us that our leaders must have strength,
To fight the terrorists! Wall off the immigrants! Keep the poor –
Away from us! Nor did Hillary’s stumble escape the Trump,
“I don’t know folks, do you think Hillary could stand up here
For an hour?” he asked of one cheering crowd after another.

Did they, with disdain, dare discuss the dalliances of their man?
Did they play the horrid Access tape over and over? No!
Stormy was becalmed; Karen quieted; Ivana and Marla,
Silenced by NDA’s. Did they harp on him cheating his business partners?
How his businesses, like his casino – a casino – had a nasty habit
Of failing? Belly up? With long trails of desperate creditors?
Nasty allegations, fake news to be sure, not worth your time –
No! They left all those along.
Their approach, so different. Such was not the case for the Prima Pantsuit.
As in a winter storm, the icy sleet coursing through the wind,
Stinging the face of the lonely climber, not once, not twice,
But with every frozen pellet smashing into the exposed skin
The lips numb, frostbite, dread killer of the snowy arctic, attacks,
And the climber weakens, the summit ever further, further –
So too across the great currents of the internet did Hillary’s emails
Swirl, every one wounding the White Woman of Wellesley
On Fallon, Kimmel, Colbert, before holy Scottpelley and Muir
Chuck Todd and Holt of the high forehead did she apologize
Again and again, poignant, heartfelt contrition, heartfelt regret,
Anything, anything, to make the story go away. And never once did she,
Nor did any of those distinguished interlocutors ask the Trump,
Perhaps he too, in fairness, could release his emails?
And yet! And yet, as the day approached, as the election neared,
The storm lightened, the sleet seemed to moderate,
The evening news led with other stories, not the damned emails.
As the storm lifted, again the citadel in New York began to glisten;
Hope, which gives us all strength, filled warm Democratic hearts
And Mook and Brazile and Bill himself slept a peaceful sleep;
While slowly, fitfully at first, then steadily, the polls began to rise.
Across the Nation, from Richmond to Omaha to Dubuque and
Sacramento too, they, the People of America, seething, swarming
Began to think as one, all together now: well, she’s not so bad.

But iron-chested Hephaestus and scheming Artemis hatched a plan,
From airy Olympus she herself sat and typed into Outlook
One divine finger tap at a time, for the gods do not touch type,
To a Certain Very Good Friend in Russia, land of the Slavs.
That Certain Friend read the email, vodka-heavy eyes suddenly open,
And from a windowless room in Moscow a message
To Brussels, then Paris, then Prague, then it found its way
To Pennsylvania Avenue, not to the home of saintly Obama, no
But number nine thirty-five, the Federal Bureau,
And its towering Director, brown-eyed Comey of Yonkers,
Pride of the University of Chicago Law School.

O weak-spined Comey! The very same day, the very same day,
You argued, no, don’t tell the American people about Putin,
How he’s hacking, he’s hacking! posting on Facebook and Twitter,
Don’t tell! The People can’t handle it! That very day, do tell,
Go ahead, stand before the press and the cameras and the microphones,
“More emails!”
“More emails!” Everything that happened thereafter,
The dire calamities to come, you set them in motion,
Made them happen! What could you have been thinking?
Our happy ending, our blessings transformed into curses,
You, tall one, caused it all. “More emails,” breathlessly you said,
To all who would listen: Congress, CNN, exultant Fox!
“Pertinent to the investigation!” More emails!
Just when all thought the storm had passed!
And Holt and Scottpelley and all of them jumped on the story,
For scandal drives ratings, ratings, revenue; and revenue, bonuses!
New cars, houses in the Hamptons, the Gulfstreams they craved!

Like a hurricane in the Atlantic that weakens just briefly,
Causing sighs of relief, only to revive, its gusts stronger than before,
So the tale of the emails once again stoked a terrible fury!
For Huma, horrified, Hillary’s pal, Weiner’s woman, had been hacked.
Sweet Huma, loyal Huma, the dick-pic’er’s mate.
Gorya, Sasha and Seryozha, they’d been at it again!
How the Trump and his merry band of deplorables gloated!
For days the G-Men, inheritors of Hoover’s great legacy
Pored over them, salivating over how Hillary accepted a meeting,
Thanked someone for their support, declined a dinner,
Suggested a particular dress for Chelsea, pure of heart
Every message banal, innocent, yet with each passing second
From Sacramento to Dubuque to Omaha in Nebraska,
All the way to Richmond, they said, well, I guess she is bad.
And still no one asked after the Trump’s emails.

“Lord Zeus,” began Hera of the well-turned ankle, “beloved husband,”
And the Thunderer groaned; nothing good every came of such a greeting.
“The world of men – and women – has been turned upside down,
This horrid war, caused by your child, your daughter by Leto, the slut,
Artemis herself, and our child Hephaestus, challenged in the mind,
This war threatens to bring down both heaven and earth.
You, O my lord, you have always been the one, stability you say,
Before I was blind, now I see the wise truth in your words.
I dared think a mortal woman could rule from the House of White,
Give enlightened laws to all the world, but now I see
The grand forces arrayed against her, against all our fair sex,
Surely, my gracious liege, can you not intervene? Please,
Burn the capacious rump of the Trump with a mighty bolt
Stay him from the presidency, help Hillary herself
Take her rightful place.” The Thunderer listened to her words
And took them seriously, contemplated her petition,
Pausing before issuing his judgment, his flashing eyes bored into her,
And blue-eyed Hera herself trembled ever so slightly,
Never having played the role of supplicant before her husband.
“I have been observing the events on Earth and among the great gods,”
Olympus’ ruler began, he of the flowing beard,
“And I have considered your plea, eloquent in words.”
A long silence ensued; stillness reigned.
All Olympus held its breath, no sparrow sang nor wolf howled,
No mighty lion stalked its prey nor eagle flew. All awaited.

Then Hera, shaking her long-tressed head, exclaimed, “Well?”
“Well – what?” barked her eternal companion, covered in glory.
“What have you decided?” Hera inquired.
“What have you decided?” Hera inquired.“About …?”
But before she could reply, mighty Zeus rallied:
“I have decided…” replied the King of the Gods, “decided …
I shall decide after my nap.” With that Zeus stood,
His mighty form terrifying in its strength and power,
And retired, leaving Hera alone, to mutter these immortal phrases,
“Oh Zeus, how far can it be, thy great bearded head, thy white flowing curls,
How far up your ass is it lodged, all so dark, fragrant, squishy
And how foolish am I having spent hours on that silly speech?”

Yet Hera was wrong, for the Thunderer had every intent, every desire
To set things right. Returning to his manly boudoir, he took a seat,
Finding a golden chalice filled with wine on the dresser, made from heads of Titans
“A special present for daddy,” a note read, “love, A.”
Smiling, he pictured his lovely daughter, then wondered:
Which one? The virgin Artemis, daughter of Leto?
Or divine Aphrodite, who tempts all gods and men with her beauty?
He pondered for a long moment; then: “No matter.”
One sip, and the Thunderer was out, down for the count.
“For how long?” asked Hephaestus of the lusty Artemis,
“Just past election day,” she replied, “when evil Hera,
Queen of the gods, will face her final humiliation.”

And so the back and forth continued, the great tides of war
Smashing against the rocks, then receding,
Only to return, more frightful than before,
Unstayed by the calming hands of the lord of thunder.
Reporters of the New York Times, the snooty nose-speakers,
Revealed the Trump, the loophole-finder, had avoided taxes,
Kept hundreds of millions from the greedy hands of the poor
And in his own fleshy, teeny-tiny digits, which so often
Fingered the Magnificent Mushroom.
Fingered the Magnificent Mushroom.But few cared. Because
The emails! And there was one, one damnable bunch of bits
From: Donna Brazile; To: John Podesta; Subj: Debate Questions
O that this ever saw the shining light of an American day!
“Sometimes I get the questions in advance,” her awful words,
Sometimes? In advance? The debate questions?!
What, Donna, did you do? Steal the mimeograph carbons?
Rummage through an office dumpster amongst the coffee grounds
Banana peels, yesterday’s stinking rotting lunch scraps,
Found ‘em! Send ‘em to Hillary right now so she can cram!
Not that either of the two worthies ever actually answered the questions
No, they glared, argued, talked over, sniped, but answer? Not so much –
But there it was, a gun! That reeked of smoke! the Trumpies crowed,
Cheating! Corruption! Corruption! Cheating!
Cheating! Corruption! Corruption! Cheating!.Donna, O Donna! How could you?

And then again the tide turned once more: those nosy G-Men sniffed about
Manafort, Trump’s man, although no longer, the Orange One,
Wharton’s pride, had fired his campaign manager long ago,
No hard feelings. Just business. But the gallant gumshoes
Smelling borscht, began looking east, to golden-domed Kiev, and
Just how much cheese did Manafort manage to purloin there?
Asked appropriately concerned high-foreheaded Holt,
Followed by Scottpelley, beloved scion of Old Man Danrather,
And then Muir, lord of the young demographic, Jennings’ successor
All rejoicing, watching the Nielsens rise, their bonuses with them
Maybe not one but two Range Rovers! Central Park condos!
And Moonves, Herman’s son and Lord of the Black Rock,
Who said of the Trump, “Not good for America, but damn good for CBS,”
He longed for that chateau in Bordeaux, loved to say it,
“Chateau in Bordeaux,” and now he began to wonder
Might it not be possible after all?


Continue to Book VIII


Across many-peopled America, land of the melting pot,
The first Tuesday after the first Monday, the great reckoning,
Approached. The armies of the Trump, son of Fred, and Hillary, Bill’s wife
Arrayed themselves against one another on the well-trod field
For the final confrontation, the war’s climax. From CNN to Fox to NBC
Terrible war cries, echoing from network to network through the airwaves
Of emails and collusion, of felonies and misdemeanors, of Democrats
The party of Roosevelt, the New Deal’s author, and Kennedy,
And Republicans, bearing the mantle of Lincoln, freer of slaves
Inheritors all of the country’s great gifts storming against one another,
Raging without control, rampaging from one talk show to the next.
Sound bite after terrible sound bite, inflicting deep wounds,
Heavy blows, yet none gave in, never flinching, returning to the fight.
Gingrich, the Salamander, accusing, finger-waving, “Hillary
And the Democrats, they had a man cruelly murdered,
Yes!” to Hannity’s shocked-shocked fans, “for leaking the emails!”
Lunging back into the fray, “The Trump stiffed his workers!
Never paid them for all their travails!” cried the furious Dems.
“Cry havoc!” Ares’ words pierced the skies, “let loose the memes of war!”

Yet on that day, that Monday, while hot battle-lust gripped the Nation,
While the minions of Ares, Fear and Anger and Hypocrisy,
Raced from coast to coast, whipped up hatred,
From red Alabama and Kentucky to blue Washington and Mass,
In Brooklyn, in an office all was still. There cool analysis
Not hot emotion reigned.
Not hot emotion reigned. And meek Mook muttered a sweet sigh of relief,
For the polls, the numbers, still showed the Woman of Wellesley
With a slight lead. Nate at Five Thirty Eight and CBS both agreed
A new President Clinton would occupy Sixteen Hundred in a few weeks,
And, as Robbie knew, numbers don’t lie, numbers are infallible,
Pristine, perfect, the percentages as holy, as trusted as scripture
All was well, but barely. Scrolling through the glistening spreadsheets,
Paging down, seeing trusty vlookup’s and hlookup’s well calc’d
The tables a-pivoting, conditional formulas a-coloring
The model! So pure! He allowed himself a moment to gloat,
To think! Another ad here, in this precinct, margin goes up by half a percent,
Or there, in that one, two percent, the numbers told no lies!
Now-disgraced Donna, she’d begged for more troops, boots on the ground,
But that would have cost, and who needed to spend, when
The truth was to be found, reality molded, in Excel!
And how could he accede to her, who humiliated Hillary,
By accepting the debate questions – no way!
Pushing his hornrims back up his well-sculpted nose,
Leaning back, for a moment of well-earned repose,
He allowed himself to dream: Director of OMB, running the budget?
Or perhaps guarding all the little people at the CFPB,
Treasury’s boss, even? Or perhaps – just perhaps – Hillary’s hero
Would ascend to Chief of Staff, a square office next to the Oval.
Blissfully his tired eyes closed.

Elsewhere in chilly Manhattan, in Washington Park
Material Madonna appeared in the mists, crooning away
Bay City’s pride, Tony’s daughter, a chanson for Hillary.

But much farther away, in onion-domed Moscow,
Someone else counted votes. Thin-haired Putin, once of the KGB,
Sat with his generals and his spies and mischief-makers.
The day before, so glorious, a Day of Military Honor,
Celebrating the October Revolution, well, once,
No more Soviets now, but a great parade down the Square of Red
Nonetheless, as patriotic as any witnessed by Stalin or Lenin!
And Putin and the others, high up on the Kremlin wall,
Looked down upon the tanks and the troops and the missiles,
Wondering, if, just maybe, the days of Slavic glory might return
For they too had spreadsheets and number-filled databases
They too, infinitely detailed models of the American populace
And they too, their predictions. It was all there,
They’d done it! Driven an axe of discord through the American skull
Split their adversary in two, one side loathing the other,
Neither even considering the Slavic source.
Their calculations, driven by their cause, their effect
Presented a different result than Mook’s. Putin, the great tactician,
The submariner’s son, slowly nodded in satisfaction,
And on his many-medaled minions evil grins appeared.
The trio spoke, again as one, “Most honored Chairman,
Lord of the Slavs and Master of All the Russias, all of them,
The bright light of ever-shifting victory shines upon us
Cold war turned cyber, triumph belongs to the descendants of Rus,
Children of Prince Igor, ancient Lord of Novgorod,
Of the valiant knights Ilya Muromets and Alyosha Popovich!
We, their children’s children, we restore our lost glory!”
But clever Putin, man of many devices, spoke not,
Waiting, waiting, for the final tally, the very last one,
The only one that truly counted.
The only one that truly counted. And in golden Trump Tower,
Gleaming in the cold winter’s sun, surrounded by barriers
They waited too, waiting the glowing screens around them
Only the privileged few, the inner circle of the Trump,
Could enter its hallowed doors. And high above, where the air is thin
Above the fog and the clouds, close, some said, to the angels,
The Trump, in his marble-floored penthouse, held court.
From his Louis the Fourteenth or Seventeenth or whatever chair,
The Capacious One, builder of casinos to milk the poor
And condos to suck from the rich, an equal opportunity leech,
Surveyed his warriors, their ranks thinner now,
Smooth-talking Manafort, Putin’s pal and Yanukovich’s,
Gone, his career torpedoed by some squealers at CIA,
Who’d said that lobbyist might soon be headed for the slammer,
And that would look bad.
And that would look bad. Gone too was fat Chris Christie,
Mouse-faced Kushner couldn’t stand the corpulent New Jerseyman,
For – and the Trump hadn’t known – Christie had once served
As the US AG for the SDNY, and had granted white-faced Jared’s dad
Charles a fourteen-month vacation in federal prison, in steamy
Alabama. How Jared hated him for that!
Alabama. How Jared hated him for that! Not that Christie was blameless,
For he had his own scandal; so what? did he protest,
So what that a few lanes from Fort Lee to the Big Apple
Were suddenly closed? So what? So what that the traffic
Backed up for a week, angry drivers trapped for days in their cars
Not his fault, no! So what if the mayor of Fort Lee was a Democrat?
Who didn’t like Christie? So what? the governor wanted to know.
Some clerk somewhere, a mixup, nothing to see here.
But the rat-like reporters and filthy federales smelled retribution,
And the US AG for the DNJ thought so too, furrowed his brows
Did throw a few bureaucrats in jail, well, just on general principles,
But now he was gunning for Christie, the Big Fish of NJ.
And so Governor Grouper left the service of the Orange One.
Lewandowski: gone; Stone: nope; Rick Gates; MIA; Caputo: outathere.

But wavy-haired Bannon still attended the Trump,
As did ever-faithful Kellyanne, whose love never faltered,
And lovely Ivanka, and of course mousey little Jared as well.
Flynn too, and Omarosa, from the TV show, and little Jeff Sessions,
Fawning over the Trump, the contractor-king.
Cat-eyed Melania was there, she’d stayed home for most of it.

“Oh Daddy,” breathed sultry Ivanka, blonde tresses falling upon her shoulders
Well-conditioned, well-curled, formed with a pearl-handled brush
He’d bought it for her, in more innocent times, used by Tsarinas.
“Dear Daddy, with my sparkling blue eyes, perfectly round, no contacts,
I can see, beloved pater familias, holder of my long-awaited inheritance,
That you are tired, exhausted even, by the travails of the past weeks.
How they have attacked you, battered you, in every way, in every state,
Yet proudly you hold yourself, returning every blow with another,
No punch unreturned, until the Wicked Woman falls in bitter defeat, as she will
On the morrow!” The Trump, his very self, his heart gladdened by her words
Sat straighter, his slumping, loose cheeks stretched into a thin smile,
Enjoying her sweet soliloquy, and – for a moment! – forbidden thoughts
Of her perfect body – no! – entered his mind – forbidden! – then banished
But only for a time, he knew, they always returned, usually at night.
And icy-eyed Melania, watching it all, read his tortured thoughts, and frowned
As Jealousy, wrecker of homes, and Disgust, entered her Slovenian mind.

They stood, facing one another, Trump to Trump, Ivanka’s soft hand
Stroking his drooping visage. “No, my darling,” spoke the Trump,
“I fear with the rise of the orange sun, so like my own fierce mane,
Will come our loss, so all the polls have decreed.”

Will come our loss, so all the polls have decreed.” “No, Daddy,”
She cried, laying her blonde tresses upon her father’s tailored suit jacket,
Pinstriped, with a designer diamond-encrusted American flag pin,
Far better than Hillary’s, couldn’t afford it, or even blessed Obama’s.
“Be of good cheer, all of you,” the Trump roused his sagging troop,
“For tomorrow, we return to the life we left, the life we loved,
Unexamined, unwatched, unreported, uninvestigated,
We’ll fly away, yes away! To Jeffrey Epstein’s in the Virgins, aptly named,
Party with his young ones, then off to the Doral, or Waikiki, or
Vancouver or Vegas, play a round of golf in Scotland!”
At this they all brightened, recalling fond memories of times of yore,
Perhaps to return! “Better than government service, right?”
The Trump, finger on the pulse, he knew how to pump up his team!

As when mighty Poseidon, lord of oceans, stirs in the wine-dark sea
Swelling a mountain-like wave, deep, strong, irresistible,
So the voice of Bannon, sonorous in its profundity
Rose, unstoppable and commanding, from a corner of the great marble hall.
“No,” began the wavy-haired warrior, Breitbart’s old boss,
“Ye with flaccid faith, which needs to be stiff, and firm, unyielding,
Like mine,” and at this Kellyanne and Ivanka shuddered.
He bowed, deeply before his lord, his master, the Trump,
Saying, “Tomorrow shall see a great victory!
One which will ring down through the generations,
For a thousand years they will sing of our triumph!
Mighty heroes! Stalwart lads and lasses! Stand your ground!
Fear not! Fret not! Take heart! History’s own hall, gabled, majestic
With heavy steps you shall enter, O my lord, Sovereign of Manhattan.
In just a day’s time, for as your mighty progenitor the divine sun
Descends tomorrow, you, dear master, decreed by Fate,
Spinner of the threads of our lives, Destiny herself,
You shall assume the reins, smite the liberals, and for all time
Hereafter to the Clintons it will be said, ‘Nevermore!’”
And in the Trump’s bleary, bloodshot eyes loving tears appeared,
His gratitude toward his loyal lieutenant swelled.
Fat hand took fat hand, and the two comrades embraced.

Seeing the Trump’s fatigue, how it sapped his strength,
Bannon took pity, “Go now, O Trump of Trumps, marshal of men,
Son of Fred, O Trumpiest, to your gold-encrusted bed,
Take your repose, sleep, let Dream come from on high,
To entertain you; we, your loyal ones, we will watch
Trusted Fox, no where else, for the latest news.”

Hearing Bannon’s wise words, the Trump nodded,
And went to bed. Alone, for Melania, queen of skin care,
Had her doubts about him.
Had her doubts about him. After brushing and flossing, twice,
In silken boxers the Trump knelt before his four-poster,
Beseeched the gods on high with his moving prayer,

Now I lay my ass to sleep, I pray the gods my foes should weep.
Every one, I’ll pay them back, into pieces them I’ll hack.
My mighty red ‘shroom well in my hand, never touching my wedding band,
Rise high and hard, for hot relief, one quick one before off to sleep.

Screw Hillary and Tim and the chubbo Chris, Paul and Bernie, please don’t miss
To hell with Joe, Barack and the rest, swat them down like little pests.

I pray the morning fart be sweet, rising from my golden seat
My millions my billions pray make them grow,
HMy millions my billions pray make them grow, dad’s very good fortune don’t let me blow.

Thus he beseeched the mighty gods on high, the far-off Olympians
And they heard his prayer, and from the cloudy peaks
The virgin Artemis conjured a Dream, and with a puff, to NYC it flew.

In a wingèd craft he flew, made of glass, transparent, so all could see
He, alone, with the pretty Ivanka, enjoying her birdlike laughter,
How she admired him! A giant among men! And below, across the lands,
In villages and hamlets, from trailer parks to campgrounds,
From Amarillo, where hundreds toil packing meat, and nuclear bombs,
to Tupelo, birthplace of Elvis, revered lord of the hips,
From flat Wichita in Kansas, Cessna’s home,
To Wheeling, along the blue-flowing Ohio River
Stout little people stood, waved, cheered for the Trump,
His heart swelled, he waved back, so good to be me,
And not you, he said it out loud, they still clapped,
How handsome, how beautiful a product of our two-legged race
They sang, in chorus, first the women, then the men too.
Now … now the Trumpian pair were naked in the forest, innocent,
As when the earth first welcomed humans to her lands,
Just he and her.

Cavorting amongst the trees, he chasing her, laughing, teasing
He the pursuer; he followed her scent, was it Chanel?
His eyes rested upon a great eagle circling above, patiently
Then, slowly, the mighty avian transformed, a vulture now —
But then her soft arms wrapped around him from behind,
Her lithe body pressed against him … for a moment … so warm … then
No! he cried, pushed her away, forbidden,
Thrust her from him! Heartbroken by his rejection,
Cold tears gushing from her well-mascara’d eyes, off she ran
Far away into the wood, he could no longer see her.
Worried now, must find her, Daddy still loves you,
He scrambled through the brush, came upon a small pond
Its still waters serene, he peered in, saw his own face,
And Love swept through him, eternal, everlasting Love,
That face! His face! He reached out, trying to grasp,
But felt another.
But felt another. “Wake up,” Bannon’s voice
Interrupted his sweet reverie.
Interrupted his sweet reverie. “You’ve won.”