Sojourns of the Trumpsmen. Canto Seven. John F. Kelly. (Loosely based on The Odyssey)

CANTO SEVEN.  JOHN F. KELLY.

Amongst the Argives serving Trump, John Kelly stands up soaring.

His press forums are run on time and rarely ever boring.

As Chief of Staff his long fixed stare strikes panic in reporters;

It makes them wish they had become instead godly colporteurs.

Upon the winedark carpeting in White House solitude

This warrior of days gone by will pace and sometimes brood:

To North Korea he must go to show the diplomats

That he can help in dialing down atomic thermostats.

Led by daemon, pride, or spite, John Kelly clears his desk,

And takes a supersonic jet to start his strange burlesque.

He lands in Pyongyang proper to a greeting cold and still;

Kim Jong-un, the dictator, has no use for goodwill.

In that land of starvelings poor John Kelly is remanded

To a dungeon cell, where he remains completely stranded.

He’s fed on rice and kimchi to break down his noble essence;

He knows that he is doomed, so he begins to fake senescence.

That wily soldier fools the docs and thus they let him go --

To wander round the countryside like some deranged dodo.

And all this time the White House staff gives Kelly ne’er a thought;

They think he must be sailing somewhere on a ritzy yacht.

Cunning Kelly scouts the lay of land like creeping ant,

Until he comes upon a secret military plant

Where atomic weapons are created, meant to quash

Occidental warmongers and all their silly bosh.

The moment of decision has arrived for Kelly, John.

Should he light the place up like the rosy morning dawn?

Or should he let the peacemakers continue their exertions,

With their tricky language and bumfuzzling assertions?

As he bows his head in pondered contemplation deep,

A rustic shepard comes along with herd of fleecy sheep.

He grins at Kelly openly and offers him some cheese,

Made from milk of ewes and meant to feed the great Chinese.

Breaking bread together, John F. Kelly realizes

That peace with all the world is surely one of the great prizes.

And so he thanks the shepherd with a nod and wink, then makes

His way back to the USA -- that land of beef and fakes.

(Don’t ask me how he does it -- this is not the time nor place

His woodcraft and his cunning to so fulsomely showcase.)

But as he tells the trumpsmen of his great adversity

They decide to lock him up and throw away the key.

Who needs a Chief of Staff that wanders all around the globe

Looking for the truth and willing hard to seek and probe?

Better that the media be fed on sleek fake news

So they’ll jump to conclusions like a bunch of kangaroos!

(to be continued) 

Sojourns of the Trumpsmen. Canto Six. Kirstjen Nielsen

CANTO SIX.  KIRSTJEN NIELSEN

Rising through the scandal waves, like Venus on her shell,

Kirstjen Nielsen came along, confusion to dispel.

Her long blonde hair did cover up a multitude of vice

(in others, since for her own self she seemed to be quite nice.)

Fatherland security is what she dotes upon;

Promoting it unceasingly with brain and active brawn.

At administration and enforcement she’s the tops;

As a solid trumpsman she has shown she’s got the chops.

Before a Senate hearing she has got to show her skill

In navigating swampland that surrounds the Capitol Hill.

In preparation thereof, some bold valkyries she called --

So she can leave those lawmakers upon the floor all sprawled.

But valkyries, when summoned, are not very meek and mild;

They rather like to give their host a ride that’s pretty wild!

So Kirstjen found herself astride a steed, then gave a holler,

As the whole dang bunch of them went up into Valhaller.

The valkyries took Kirstjen straight into the feasting hall,

Where warriors were guzzling and spoiling for a brawl.

The red-eyed master of the revels bade her sit at ease

While he belched a cloud of mead and scratched his pesky fleas.

“So you’re the one to massacre the foes who dare invade

Your fatherland!” he roared, as sharpened daggers he displayed.  

“Don’t let ‘em think that hygge keeps you gentle as a maid --

But strike their worthless heads off to display on your stockade!”

He offered her a cup of mead -- she downed it in one gulp,

Which then in turn went right to work and turned her brain to pulp.

Flaming with a Viking rage, good Kirstjen took a sword

And started ventilating those around the groaning board.

Zip! There went a thighbone gone. Zap! There goes a nose.

Mighty Kirstjen made mincemeat of heads and arms and toes.

The massacre left ev’ryone with wounds that ever bleed --

Then Kirstjen tossed her head in pride and had another mead . . .

When she awoke upon her bedroom floor she realized

She had had a vision that had left her canonized.

Her calling and election sure, a warlord Queen was she.

She’d spit the foes of Uncle Sam upon a sharpened tree!

She’s going into battle with the Senate pretty soon.

She’s gonna turn some heads and make so many of them swoon.

Can she be trusted to protect our sacred polity --

Or will she want to give each citizen the third degree?

(to be continued)

Sojourns of the Trumpsmen. Canto Five. Rex Tillerson.

CANTO FIVE.  REX TILLERSON.

The rosy sun peeked o’er the tops of monument and dome

Until it reached the window panes of Tillerson’s fine home.

Rex Tillerson, in study lined with books and charts diverse,

Was pondering origins of the complex universe.

No moron he, with brains as big as watermelon fruit;

Rex Tillerson did calculus -- and also played the flute.

He deigned to oversee the State Department just for kicks,

And dreamed he could discover the headwaters of the Styx.

Like any self-respecting sage, he longed to poke and prod

Into the cosmos constantly (and maybe play at God.)

In his garage he tinkered with a large and sturdy kite,

With which he thought he could achieve intergalactic flight.

Powered by a Democrat who ran inside a wheel,

The kite was ready to be launched with scientific zeal.

And thus assured, Rex Tillerson, that mighty man of brains,

Mounted to the cockpit to pull levers and grab reins.

Faster than a supersonic jet he sped away

Right past clouds to play at tag with satellites all day.

Landing on the Moon, he found it dusty and inactive.

The fact that Bernie Sanders wasn’t there made it attractive.

Impatient to discover all the mysteries of space,

Rex Tillerson continued at an arbitrary pace.

On Mars he found canals and polar ice and gun control;

Anyone who shot one off was put on hard parole.

Past the gaseous giants he fled into the abyss --

And found that all dark matter was milk chocolate made by Swiss.

Bouncing off a black hole he caromed into a star

Where the Little Prince sang in a bleak karaoke bar.

Tillerson then twittered to his boss that he had found

That the Big Bang Theory was disproven and unsound.

All matter was created not by blast but by design,

And with the Golden Rule his chief had better soon align.

Back on Earth the Chief received this tweet with unbelief.

He told the press that Tillerson’s appointment had been brief.

Now he was ambassador to all of outer space

(after which all record of him vanished without trace.)

They named a comet after him, a constellation too --

But where he really went not anybody really knew.

Among the constellations there is plenty of hearsay

That as an immigrant he cannot cross the Milky Way.  

(to be continued)  

Sojourns of the Trumpsmen. Canto Four. Scott Pruitt.

CANTO FOUR. SCOTT PRUITT.

From the land of Ponca, where Tornado Alley thrives,

Came a Great White Lawyer, with the dust of cattle drives.

Scott Pruitt was a trumpsman who believed in smoke and mirrors.

He thought that global warming was just pandering to fears.

He loved the smell of sulfur and he treated fossil fuels

As tenderly and eagerly as if they were rare jewels.

He cherished ev’ry lump of coal that Santa brought his way;

To him they were a badge of honor with a sweet cachet.

The fiery indignation of tree huggers left him cold.

He had no heart for anything but methane and black gold.

He loved a roaring furnace full of clinkers and hot coke,

With ashen clouds spread round about, making people choke.

He did not go unnoticed by the fiends down in the pit;

They liked his motivation and they thought it very fit

To grant him a vacation in their flaming regions low --

Where soot and sparks and charcoal fumes eternally do blow.

And so it came to pass that one fine day while Pruitt planned

To have most of the EPA rules permanently banned,

An imp came through the floor to grab his ankles for a trip

Down into the murky bowels of earth at quite a clip.

Pluto greeted him with pleasure in his kingdom hot,

And bade him to relax, then peeled for him a tart kumquat.

“I find it rather warm down here” said Pruitt with a grunt.

“I hope that you are not averse to having a cold front.”

Pluto roared with laughter; twas a jest indeed, he thought.

But Pruitt found the atmosphere was getting rather hot.

When he pled to be released back to the upper world,

To feel the zephyrs cooling and smell flower scents unfurled --

Pluto roared again, but not with pleasure -- only pique

That Pruitt from his close embrace would think to slyly sneak.

“By all the tar and asphalt in my kingdom” he replied,

“You’ll park your carcass here with me and long time will abide!”

Meanwhile back upon the earth, the clerks of Pruitt fell

To telling his appointments that old Scott had gone to hell.

When all the other trumpsmen heard about his dire plight,

They shrugged in full indiff’rence and then hoped he’d be alright.

For though a trumpsman beats his breast and claims a noble heart,

He rarely thinks of others outside of a neat pie chart.

Thus Pruitt found himself upon extended leave down under,

Sweating midst the greasy gloom of Pennzoil’s future plunder.  

(to be continued)

Sojourns of the Trumpsmen. Canto Three. Stephen Miller.

CANTO THREE. STEPHEN MILLER.

Up above the clouds all stained, where crystal ozone swam,

Wafted demi-gods and nymphs just looking for a scam.

One of them, a doe-eyed sylph, descried young Stephen Miller --

And decided there and then to hoax the young joykiller.  

She drifted down and took the form of a hoyden brown,

Looking for employment as a maid in D.C. Town.

Young Miller hired her because her wages were so cheap.

She slaved for him and never spoke Hispanic in her sleep.

But as Miller shaped the immigration rules for Trump,

His doe-eyed maid had plans to give him such a wicked bump.

Her superhuman sex appeal got to this rabble rouser  --

Under her influence he became a sourcelled browser.

While telling Congress that a wall was needed for the Dreamers,

And making sure the public knew that immigrants were schemers,

His brittle heart went pit-a-pat each time he saw his maid,

And soon he was enamored of her skin and smell and braid.

He begged her to become his wife; he didn’t give a hoot

That she was a Latina -- she was just so doggone cute!

Said she: “If you would have my hand in holy matrimony,

You must run a race with me before I’ll be your crony!”

“If you win the race I will become your blushing bride,

And my empanadas and serape meekly hide.

But should I win the marathon, you must pledge to agree

To let my cousins, uncles, aunts, into this great country!”

Though he thought the Spanish tongue was traitorously thick,

And felt that good diplomacy was hefting a big stick,

He could never gainsay anything she asked of him --

Even if the Hellespont she bade him quick to swim.

And so it came to pass they footed it across the Mall,

To see which one was swiftest, and which one would take the fall.

Thimblerigged and conjured from the start, the magic nymph

Raced ahead of Miller, leaving him to sweat out lymph.

But he would not see females tending in the track and field

Were just as good as menfolk -- so the palm he would not yield.

And so he kept on running, till his body turned to toast;

He sprinted like a demon after giving up the ghost.

His magic affianced then took great pity on his pride,

And turned him into something that would keep immortal stride.

And that is why you see him rolling still along the Mall --

In the shape and size of a Trump Turnberry golf ball.

(to be continued)

Sojourn of the Trumpsmen. Canto Two. Mike Pence.

CANTO TWO. MIKE PENCE.

Among the councils of the trumpsmen hunkered Michael Pence.

His whited hair and candid smile hid feelings quite intense.

He felt his place as underling to Trump to be a farce;

His chance at reelection to be questionable and sparse.

From fabled Indiana, where the basketball is loved,

Pence into the broadcast field had impudently shoved.

He had been the governor, and legislator, too.

Now he just was stooging for his boss and toady crew.

The gods looked down upon him, and they laughed a bit to see

How much this Hoosier hustler did hate the word “VP.”

They seeded all his thoughts with dreams of travel to far places;

To press the flesh and meet with crisp admiring new faces.  

He took his entourage to Puerto Rico to survey

The tempest-tempered island (and to tell them they must pray.)

He wondered to reporters if a moonshot from St. Croix

Would help them to recover (while he stiffed a small bellboy.)

His retinue, like suitors to Penelope of old,

Devoured ev’rything in sight with appetites made bold.

The green and torrid boscage and the silver beaches groaned

As these interlopers ordered all their quail deboned.

“Begone!” the Puerto Ricans did at last demand of Pence.

“Take your tax reform talk and your mooching staffers hence!”

And so the VP, much chagrined, and all his hungry staff,

Departed from the islands like a cloud of windblown chaff.

Back into obscurity, as Senate President,

Ambitious Michael Richard Pence petulantly went;

Kept upon a leash so short that he can only trek

To a few selected states to beg a campaign check.

(to be continued)