Sojourns of the Trumpsmen. Canto Fourteen. Stephen K. Bannon

CANTO FOURTEEN. STEPHEN K. BANNON.

There was a man, a mighty man -- Steve Bannon was his name.

Of all the Trumpsmen he alone had never tasted shame.

Swift and cunning, Bannon is like Hermes was to Zeus;

A wingman who protects his boss from those that would traduce.

In fact, the mighty Bannon did resolve that his great chief

Needed some place grander than the US for his fief.

Casting round his doughty eye, Steve Bannon soon descried

The perfect place for trumpsmen to salute their joy and pride.

The real estate in question was Olympus Mount, where myth

Had built a vaunting edifice with augury and pith.

The thought was father to the deed; Sir Bannon climbed anon

Straight up to where the demigods sat stifling a yawn.

“Ho, spirits of the depthless void!” he called to them aloud.

“Who’s in charge of this here mangy hocus-pocus crowd?”

The Thunderer rose up in wrath, to smite this mortal gnat

Who dared profane their sacred halls with trifling chit chat.

But ere he could unloose a thunderbolt Sir Bannon spoke,

And what he had to offer made the demigods all choke.

He told them with a honeyed smile that sweet would be the prize

For those who let his Chieftain settle there amidst the skies.

Commanding arms and opulence beyond their untamed dreams,

He could grant their wishes anent avarice and schemes.

In return they would surrender all their fey domains

And be bound with very light and unobtrusive chains.

And each one who relinquished all their godlike liberty

Would become a talking head on national TV.

The demigods consulted like a swarm of restless bees --

And finally agreed, if they could keep gratuities.

And thus it came to pass that all the trumpsmen and their boss

Ascended to Olympus, far above the common dross.

While all the mythic idols, who had once held mankind’s heart,

Were relegated to a desk job somewhere in Breitbart.

It only goes to prove that when a man is good with words

He can make a serpent dance or silence all the birds.

A boss who has a counselor like that ought to beware --

He might be left out in the rain with just his underwear.

(to be continued)

Sojourns of the Trumpsmen. Canto Thirteen. Sonny Perdue.

CANTO THIRTEEN.  SONNY PERDUE.

Whilst traveling through Europe, talking agriculture stuff,

Sonny of Bonaire was met with prejudices gruff.

The European Union told him they would rather starve

Than into US chicken ever stick a knife to carve.

Our chickens, drenched in chlorine and with altered DNA,

Were deadlier than cyanide and must be kept at bay.

In fact the tillers of the soil back in the USA

Grew nothing except poison that would kill you right away.

Sonny of Bonaire became enraged at such great slander.

And Ares, god of war, just kept on cranking up his dander --

Until, upon returning to America in haste,

He decided Europe now deserved to be laid waste.

Using drones and missiles, Sonny madly sent abroad

Corn syrup bombs and allergens inside the green pea pod.

Radishes with road rage were unleashed on France and Spain;

And chicken feet marched into Rome, which caused a lot of pain.

Soybeans with DNA that made them go psychotic

Were introduced to parliaments, where they became despotic.

Carcasses of beef and pork, with zombie germs endowed,

Spread across the countryside of Europe like a cloud.

As a final stroke, atomic cornstalks fell upon

The Netherlands and then were aimed at ostentatious Bonn.

Even NATO could not stem the tide of GMO’s

That threatened all of Europe and that withered ev’ry rose.

Sonny of Bonaire went back in triumph to those folk

Who had treated US produce as a nasty joke.

As Emperor Perdue the First he now rules placidly

Over ruins and toxic wastes where famine sits with glee.

(to be continued)

Sojourns of the Trumpsmen. Canto Twelve. Ryan Zinke.

CANTO TWELVE.  RYAN ZINKE.  

Snapping in the breeze, the flag of doughty Ryan Zinke

Warned the common rabble he was eating a fried Twinkie.

His secretaries washed his hands with lustral water, then

Ryan Zinke set about to sell a lake or fen.

Too many fields and mountains did the government retain;

Twas Zinke’s dream to make of them a noble gravy train.

The money thus engendered would support a junket spree

For all the crowding trumpsmen who met longueurs constantly.

But unbeknownst to Zinke, Circe -- goddess of quick change --

Didn’t like his bartering of ev’ry mountain range.

In disdain she visited his office quietly

To make him part of her immortalized menagerie.

A simple tap of oaken wand, and Zinke was a seal.

Circe scooped him barking up into her giant creel.

Her sorcery swept them away unto antarctic floes,

Where chilblains nipped eternally at ev’rybody’s toes.

There she did release him into salty seas to swish

After black crustaceans and walleyed polar fish.

His life was hard and hurried as he hunted after kippers,

Longing to have hands again, instead of clumsy flippers.

But then a Swedish trawler came a-hunting seals and whales;

They ate ‘em fried, with sour cream, from snout to slender tails.

They netted Ryan Zinke with a mess of flapping skates,

And he was quick to realize he was in dire straits.

Back at the ranch -- in Washington -- the trumpsmen meanwhile snored

Away their days while Ryan’s fate they heartlessly ignored.

They’d heard he had reupped and was now skippering a boat --

Or went out with some floozy in a strangely furry coat.

But Ryan was in trouble, and, not knowing where to turn,

He started swearing dreadfully, which made the Swede’s ears burn.

The captain, he was startled when he heard a seal start cussing --

He ordered the poor creature to be spared the final trussing.

Taken to his cabin, Ryan Zinke did reveal

To the captain staring that he was a magic seal.

Luckily the captain dabbled in the black arts, too --

He broke the spell so Zinke became human through and through.

But Zinke did not go back to the fleshpots of D.C.

He stayed aboard the trawler working nets unceasingly.

He found that he enjoyed the company of kelp and char --

More than any trumpsman at a ritzy oyster bar.

(to be continued)

Babies who want a third gender

From the NYTimes:

“Californians who don’t identify themselves as male or female will soon be able to get a gender-neutral birth certificate.”

A baby who wants a third gender

Will find California a splendor.

The doctors and nurses

May hurl a few curses,

But intersex bairns won’t surrender.

I wanna be a member of a secret order, please -- so I can be initiated till my pants I pees

From the NYTimes:
ALBANY — Last March, five women gathered in a home near here to enter a secret sisterhood they were told was created to empower women.
     The women, in their 30s and 40s, belonged to a self-help organization called Nxivm, which is based in Albany and has chapters across the country, Canada and Mexico.
     Sarah Edmondson, one of the participants, said she had been told she would get a small tattoo as part of the initiation. But she was not prepared for what came next.
     A female doctor proceeded to use a cauterizing device to sear a two-inch-square symbol below each woman’s hip, a procedure that took 20 to 30 minutes. For hours, muffled screams and the smell of burning tissue filled the room.

I wanna be a member of a secret order, so

I can be trussed up and cauterized real nice and slow.

For only through much suffering can men and women gain

Access to the knowledge that real life is such a pain.

And when I am a member I will know the secret signs,

The passwords and the symbols and the mascot porcupines.

It makes me feel so powerful, this gnostic camouflage,

That I’ll embrace their doctrine though it sounds a bit hodgepodge.

Of course if I go spill the beans I know the high command

Will have me tarred and feathered, then my fanny will be tanned.

But why would I betray a group that does me so much good?

(When I get all my dues paid off they’ll let me wear a hood!)

Sojourns of the Trumpsmen. Canto Eleven. Jeff Sessions

CANTO ELEVEN.  JEFF SESSIONS.

On his way to Congress, Mr. Sessions took a cab.

The cabbie was an immigrant who didn’t like to gab.

So when he took a wrong turn and kept driving aimlessly,

He didn’t tell Jeff Sessions they were lost as lost could be.

Some deity decided to put Sessions fast asleep,

And made the taxi fly across the ocean vast and deep.

They came down in the country of the ukase, Tyrantland --

Where citizens are cattle and most freedoms had been banned.

When Sessions was awakened from his legendary doze

He found he was surrounded by a crowd in winter clothes.

They took him to the magistrate, who frowned at him and said:

“Give me all your money or you’ll wish that you were dead!”

Jeff Sessions didn’t like the tone the judge had in his voice,

But figured when in Rome you didn’t really have a choice.

He coughed up all his money and the magistrate decreed

That Sessions should be tossed out in the street with ample speed.

The snow was six feet deep and Jeff was dressed in lightweight stuff;

He shivered as he wished he had at least a warm earmuff.

Pedestrians ignored him -- he was jostled by a bus.

He was an outsider, and no longer ‘one of us.’

He looked in vain an embassy of Uncle Sam to find.

But talking to a stranger meant the citizens were fined --

So they walked around him, wrapping scarves around their ears.

And thus Jeff Sessions learned first hand the agony of sneers.

The law was no protection to him in his awful plight.

No lawyer wanted him around or for his claims to fight.

And do you think Jeff Sessions then repented of his own

Politics that made so many back home start to groan?

No! He was not sorry in the least for his designs

To use the law to cudgel dissidents with stern guidelines.

Instead, he stole a fur cap and a cape of velvet cloth

And ev’ry unjust mandate he accepted like warm broth.

While Congress waited patiently for Sessions to appear,

He worked the laws of Tyrantland with cruelty and fear.

So powerful did he become that finally the Boss

Of Tyrantland decided that Jeff Sessions was mere dross.

They stuck him in a rocket and shot him back unto D.C.

Where all the merry trumpsmen still insult democracy.

So when he went to Congress, he put all of ‘em in jail --

And nobody’s the wiser cuz he cut off their email.  

(to be continued)

Judges have more power than the President would like

President Trump’s attempts to block travelers from a handful of countries — most of them predominantly Muslim — from coming to the United States hit another legal snag on Tuesday, when a federal judge in Hawaii issued a nationwide order freezing most of Mr. Trump’s third travel ban the day before it was to take effect.  from the NYTimes.

Judges have more power than the President would like.

He want’s accommodation (like they had in the Third Reich.)

The law is well and good when it’s applied to minor case,

But otherwise it really needs to know its proper place.

Justice may be blind to all the riff raff and low born,

But it better listen when old Trump has blown his horn.

If the judges keep on ev’ry law of Trump to thwart --

He will build a wall around the friggin’ Supreme Court!

Sojourns of the Trumpsmen. Canto Ten. Ben Carson.

CANTO TEN.  BEN CARSON.

Up on Mount Olympus, where the real estate’s restricted,

Ben Carson has the power to have even Zeus evicted.

“These deities have never learned to pull their own darn weight!”

He says as he sends dozens crashing down to their dim fate.

Their palaces and manors, and their alabaster halls,

are razed so they can make room for some brand new shopping malls.

The mighty Carson worships toil and old Hippocrates --

His modesty forbade his visage on the smallest frieze.

‘Making your own luck’ was all the mantra he required.

Then disgruntled Zeus gave him to dream and be rewired.

In this fancy, simple Ben became a roustabout

For a carny show where crooked games he had to tout.

At the skee-ball stand he promised fortune to the brave

Who spent their money lavishly and then refused to cave.

Immovable milk bottles were set up for all the chumps --

You couldn’t knock ‘em over even using oak tree stumps.

The carny show moved constantly, one step ahead of cops

Who wanted to shut down their bait and switch extortion shops.

Their flukey ball and whack a mole were games of little chance --

Not when those canny carnies put the suckers in a trance.

And Ben was chief among them, grifting right and left with glee.

Fixing it so innocents wound up in bankruptcy.

Hiding in a mitt joint, he could see that life was skewed;

Some got all the velvet but most others just got screwed.

And then the dream was over -- Ben awoke back home again;

But the insight he had garnered burned inside him like cayenne:

Hard work could give you comfort, but there was no guarantee

That life would not defraud you and withhold prosperity.    

Afterwards Ben Carson was less critical of those

Who never seemed quite able to stay up upon their toes.

He was a bit more tolerant -- but that was a mistake;

For soon his fellow trumpsmen thought him nothing but a fake.

They kicked him out of office, saying he could never be

A valid Trumpsman if he showed such hateful charity.

So he went back to doctoring, to cheating only death --

Refusing ever after to mouth any shibboleth.

(to be continued)

What comes afta Nafta?

The ability of foreign companies to sue governments is one of the most contentious issues in the clash among the United States, Mexico and Canada over how to rework Nafta. The Trump administration views that section of Nafta as impinging on national sovereignty, saying it undermines government decision-making. The United States is pushing for dramatic changes in that provision that would roll back the ability of companies to bring cases under Nafta. Those changes are fiercely opposed by businesses, Mexico and — despite its loss to Bilcon — Canada.    From the NYTimes.

What comes afta Nafta is a question being asked

By ordinary people and those with resources vast.

Nobody wants to change it, ‘cept a White House bedlamite;

And ev’ryone is hoping his bark’s much worse than his bite.

Canada and industry, and even Mexico,

Wanna keep things going at the same old status quo.

But Nafta-phobes in Rust Belt lands, and even in D.C.

Are after blood and want the program to be history.

It may fall out that when we have our Wall up way down South,

That someone in the White House will keep shooting off his mouth

About this Nafta problem, so that Canada will route

All their efforts to a Wall that keeps us Yankees OUT.