Wait a minute . . . Deep State Trump-haters are STILL talking about that Steele Dossier? Still trying to digest that nothingburger 2 years later? Hmmmmmm . . .
It is time, oh my seething, teeming hordes of loyal readers, to re-inflict one of my epic poems on all of you. Time has improved its delicate Trumpian savor.
Here is my Golden
Shower Oldie from 2017:
Fake News Wets Bed
HEAR YE, HEAR YE: It’s a wedding bell for bedding well while we’re crushin’ the illusion of Russian collusion! CNN wets on Russian bedding but Trump bets on Russian wedding, and you’re invited to the bridal shower. Punking the monkery, dig the debunkery; from Rasputin to Putin it’s time for some straight shootin’. Hillary looks old and glowers at Donald’s rumored golden showers. Our media owes US an explanation for streams of steaming urination, but we are willing to forgive and use their wet diapers as debt wipers. My poem’s appeal may take a toll, but let its little peal now roll:
“Tinkle, tinkle” rings the bell
A Fake News warning; time to spell
out what was wet with Moscow girls.
Putin’s putas? Wisdom’s pearls
were pried from Truth’s reluctant shell,
banishing Hillary straight to hell.
None. It’s what we want left over
from this hag. We now discover
beds were dry; it all amounted
(all those golden tricks recounted)
to less than a tepid bowl of kasha. . .
Russia laughed from her summer dacha.
InfoWars was on it first
while Dems spun lies from false to worst,
awarding cash for faked dossiers
embellished with the CIA’s
well-trained performing circus-seal.
The FBI endorsed the deal
as RINOS horned in on the action:
a democrat-concocted fuss—
. . . but we ALL paid Hillary to piss on us.
Haunted by hate of your president
You froth as you rage like a demon;
setting a dangerous precedent,
urged on by the likes of Don Lemon.
Your sinister soul is now evident
and the hatred you spew is obscene.
You have swilled, with the thirst of a malcontent
vicious words from the well of Maxine.
You’re possessed now by hate of your president,
while the minions are taken to task;
you dismiss every mob as a non-event—
but we see you behind the dark mask.
The country is in the throes of a major epidemic, with no known cure and some pretty scary symptoms. It’s called Trump Derangement Syndrome, or TDS, and it’s rapidly spreading from the point of origin – the political class – to the population at large.
And the Lord hath sent unto you all his servants the prophets,
rising early and sending them; but ye have not hearkened,nor inclined your ear to hear.
Surely the Lord God will do nothing,
but he revealeth his secret unto his servants the prophets.
Dealing Trump Cards
The past participle of deal is dealt;
Thus, when the cards fall is when it is felt.
A deck of cards knows its own unsealer
as well as the skill and art of the dealer.
Trump cards, (although not normally plural)
are to share. The enjoyment is jural.
We hope they are more than dealed incitements:
those fifty-thousand sealed indictments . . .