My spirit guide, Bob, has been knocking urgently on my astral door ever since the inauguration. Seems Samuel Taylor Coleridge was on the Ethereal Blower with this report from the Other Side.
In Washington did Donald Trump
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
And Ralph, the White House dresser, ran
Through swatches to complete the plan
Downtown in old DC.
With twice five miles of plate gold found,
The walls and rooms were gilded round;
And there were toilets bright with auric frills,
The toilet rolls were golden filigree;
And here were Donald’s photos, flattering stills
Staring down at whomsoever had a pee.
But oh! that cool reflecting pool which slanted
Across the green Mall beside the Lincoln shrine!
Trump hated it! The whole thing left him haunted
As e’er because his self-esteem was taunted
By great deeds of the past he could not outshine!
In his speeches, with ceaseless swagger seething,
Were countless porkies, natural as breathing,
Almighty whoppers, pan-handled from a stream
Of glinting fools’ gold, a never-failing seam.
Huge falsehoods vented in front of cameras,
No evidence, each claim bigly bold as brass.
Amid these diatribes the TV and press
Were made to sit in silence, witness the mess:
Five pages wandering with hazy notions
Through countless words the hapless visitors sat,
And gawped at each new shiny alternate fact,
Then sank at length, bewildered, in commotion;
And ’mid this tumult Donald heard from far
Journalist voices prophesying war!
The shadow of the presidency
Passed across the gathering;
Nothing that was evidentiary
Seemed to mean a single thing.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A White House pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
A spokesman with a bone to pick,
Sent out by the president:
“We had two million. Period
The multitudes were myriad!”
Millions at the Capitol?
Could I believe, within me,
His rhetoric so strong?
I knew the answer instantly:
Something here was very wrong.
I would put that Trump on air,
That White House dome! those caves of ice!
And all who watched should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His tiny hands, his stupid hair!
Beware this man who cleaves to power
And close your eyes with holy dread
For he on Russian treats hath fed,
And drunk a call girl’s golden shower.
Too funny! Favorite rime: “We had two million. Period/The multitudes were myriad!”
It’s rare to find someone who understands Romanticism and political parody. Everyone should read this. But not in U.S. We’re idiots, apparently.
Romanticism? God yes. Who didn’t love Spandau Ballet?
Not everyone in the US is an idiot. Unfortunately the one who matters most is. Bummer.
Reblogged this on Kind of Lime and commented:
Following the spat at yesterday’s White House press briefing, I can’t help feeling that this blog has turned out to be even more prescient than I feared.