Sojourns of the Trumpsmen. Canto Fifteen. Megan J. Brennan

CANTO FIFTEEN. MEGAN J. BRENNAN.

At last the trumpsmen had it made, on Mount Olympus lolling,

While their matchless leader spent his time with tweets and squalling.

The gods of old they had displaced, a new game they were playing --

while all the people down below were suffering and praying.

But offering oblations did not give the people rest --

These deities thought sacrifice was nothing but a jest.

Yet in the midst a Trojan horse lay waiting to surprise

These hoity toity ankle biters with their silly lies.

The Postmaster, Miss Megan, who did oversee the mail,

Rode about Olympus on her ponderous great snail.

Eldritch and meticulous, she went her quiet way

And didn’t care for how her colleagues liked to spend the day.

She sought out one who held religious views on politics,

And had retired in disgust from all the shabby tricks.  

In the templed mountains of the West he now did sit --

Amidst the peaceful Danite bands, who liked to call him Mitt.

Miss Megan made obeisance to the mighty Mitt, imploring

Him to take his sword and justice swift begin restoring.

But Mitt was quite reluctant to re enter the arena

Where ev’ry man must grovel and then stay the low hyena.

But pressing him with tears and sobs, Miss Megan wrung his heart,

And so with clean white shirts galore Mitt Romney made a start.

Gathering high legions of investors and fierce brokers,

Mitt Romney led them all against the Oval Office jokers.

The churning of great battle echoed through the nooks and crannies,

Heartening the bourgeoisie (but scaring all their grannies.)

At last the trumpsmen uncle cried and slunk away in anguish,

The mark of Cain upon their brows as in exile they languish.

And what of Romney and his host of fellow plutocrats --

Will they now wield the power, or hang up their righteous hats?  

The future is diaphanous, a thing of shreds and tatters.

The conscience of the people is the only thing that matters.

FINIS