CANTO ONE
Speak to me, my Muse and guide, and do not spare the flights
Of fancy for the men of Trump who all were errant knights.
Triumphant in the war against the azure-tainted foe,
They flocked around their leader to enjoy the afterglow.
He had led them when the chips were down, in fact extinct;
When there didn’t seem to be a single loyal precinct.
Bravely they had fought and fibbed to make the country great.
Stoutly had they written checks (without much int’rest rate.)
And then the gods of ballot box, of tally and of poll,
Had put their adversaries in a deep and slavic hole.
The victory was so complete the troops of leftist teal
Were banished to the void to gnash their teeth and rudely squeal.
Fifteen met in council with their Chief to plan the peace.
Ten plus five, the number of those who would share the grease.
Blinded by their confidence, they worshipped the cash cow --
And left all other deities to hold their own powwow.
They would build a tower to reach profits in the sky.
And a hurdle that would make barbarians all cry.
Medicine would be abridged and lose its kindly gaze;
Only those with lots of gold could purchase real x-rays.
Wall Street would be idolized and fossil fuels acclaimed.
Those in welfare housing would be made to feel ashamed.
These, and other crude conceits, the trumpsmen gaily planned --
While the gods determined that their backsides should be tanned.
Their punishment was subtle and as wily as can be;
Each council member would regret their own trajectory.
Steamship, airship, choo-choo train, or limousine deluxe;
No matter how luxurious, each trip would end in flux.
And so the stage is set for tragedy and balderdash,
For detours and debacles, while a lot of things go smash.
Safe haven for these buccaneers is not at all assured,
As the siren song of loot to mishap has them lured . . .
(to be continued)
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