BOOK I

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!”