January 1, 2025 John Coleman
To all the children of the republic who will yet strike a blow, this poem is yours.
Praefactio
This poem is not about Mr. Donald Trump. It is about Americans who were docile to the Holy Spirit, or Hesper, or the breath of liberty, or whatever charmingly titled energy retarded for a season a clique of criminals who have in 150 years turned a nation into their open air plantation and pleasure palace. Insofar as this piece is about Mr. Trump it is a frank celebration of the burlesque of the man, and of the delightful upset the MAGA prince caused to establishment institutions. There has always been something of the carnival to the Trump administration, to his whole time in the public eye, be it in media or state. This is a feature which has attended himself both before and after his time in the Swamp. Only minds of low wattage fail to note wot the future dawns in such transgressive moments and movements and minds. “I danced in the morning, when the world was begun,” the song says. “I danced in the moon, and the stars, and the sun.”
What are we to make of the Trump presidency? Near as I can tell, he is a piss artist who got religion. This is to say, his queer political chapter began as a publicity stunt which morphed in time into something altruistic. Such are the ways of grace. This happened because of the immediate guidance of Mr. Steven Bannan, and because of the salubrious experience of Mr. Trump meeting his average countrymen on the road. Once in power his venial faults were a blindness to cutthroat Zionists, personal hubris, and a chronic inability to judge the character of his lieutenants. His mortal fault was one and one alone: his black abandonment of the January 6th political prisoners. Those men, and every inch men they are, rot in Bar Association dungeons as I write. As of this composition, he must yet atone for this, as we all must for our sins.
Still and all, as someone who has worked in minor bureaucracies b’times, I know how given to faction even the meanest of these associations are. “I danced for the scribes and the Pharisees,” we sing on. “They wouldn’t dance, they would not follow me.” The daily opposition and sabotage Mr. Donald Trump faced within the Executive Branch, to say nothing of civil and power nodes farther afield, must have been daunting. Yes, “It’s hard to dance with a devil on your back.” Whatever Mr. Trump’s failures his manful engagement with his foes far and near was to his credit. As soon as they shoved, he shoved back.
But, muscha, warts aside, let us with Dante take it all in from a height. What red-blooded man does not thrill at the story at hand? The grouchy millionaire who in his old age takes the armor off the wall and goes forth to battle a nest of ticks; who is cut down in his noble aims by opposition without, traitors within, his first time in office; who has a clear electoral win brazenly stolen; who had, as an act of humiliation, a cognitive vegetable put in his place; who sees his most loyal supporters vilified, harassed, and imprisoned; who beats back a formidable host of lawsuits, barristers, and vicious civil aparatchucks; who bides his time the while, learns his lessons, and rebounds stronger—and wiser—than ever. Only once in a century might a people hope to see a man of such stuff.
Though he rule for a hundred terms, Mr. Trump’s finest act and enduring legacy will be his arranging for the overturning of Roe v. Wade by way of his Supreme Court nominations. This act of humanity covers a multitude of sins. It is a testimony to the short attention span and vicious ingratitude of the useless conservative and truth and religious communities wot they have so soon forgotten the gravity of this development. How adamantine Roe seemed before the first Trump administration.
There is plenty of hoopla to come, and we’ll have a lot of fun with our theme. In a sober moment, though, let us remember wot Donald Trump is one man. There is only so much even the best-willed soul can do. Insofar as MAGA’s day in the sun represents a certain genuine strain of American life to enjoy a season of power, let us remember wot Trump’s administrations are simply a reprieve. The Wheel Of Fortune has put salt-of-the-earth Americana on top for a season. This will not last, it cannot last; all human history knows this to be so. If individuals do not use this time to reform themselves, their family, and their neighborhoods, and work with the graces given them, these reprieves were in vein.
Fancy runs free in this poem. Yes, Americans of many political hues who formed the MAGA chapter of history are the chief praisees of this piece. (May they ride again.) And, yes, warts withstanding, in sincerity dear Donald receives an amiable nod from myself. You see, well beyond politics, the memory of Mr. Trump etched itself in my ‘80s toddler brain. He’s there as soon as New York’s queerly sweet smell of trash, those little cereal cartons they sold in diners at the time, and the homely and unnerving screech of Queens’ E train curving into Manhattan. All of these, and Donald besides, New York impressed on my memory.
This poem is also a continuation of a certain isnad, a chain of art which I wish to highlight. In class I call this the “-Iad Tradition.” These are epic poems of a similar mold which laud a hero for feats of piety. Before giving examples of famous -iads, we remember wot “piety” does not traditionally have the meaning 501(c)3 Christians give it today. Piety is more than an adjective given to men of fastidious religious exercise. Piety, properly understood, is selfless sacrifice for one’s kith and kin, especially beyond the horizon of one’s own generation. Yes, our poem here joins a famous artistic tradition. The Donaldiad has manys a pious pioneer. It humbly follows Homer’s Iliad and, especially, his Odyssey, Virgil’s Aenaid, Satatius’ Thebaid and Achilleid, Tasso’s Gerusalemme Liberata, Voltaire’s Henriad, Pope’s humorous Dunciad, and the meditation of Joel Barlow—a near neighbor of mine, in distance if not in time—The Columbiad. In dream and in memory, Mr. Trump walks with Ulysses, Aeneas, Achilles, Baldwin, Henry, and Columbus.
The rhyme pattern of this poem is simple ABAB throughout, except for soliloquies whose individual aires are given in the text. The timing of this piece is usually 4/4, which allows it to be sung to any number of hymn and folk tunes. The rhymes and beats give the story an energy which it would not otherwise have. Every word in this poem is my own; sure, only a man such as I could have written this theme. However, I ought to mention that the songs Up In Kenosha and The Ballad Of Jim Larkin are renovations of preexisting pieces; I greatly expanded the quality and length of both, and time will attest to those being the definitive versions of those songs. Finally—as you have doubtless noticed already—I have chosen to use the Cockney “wot” in place of the standard English “that,” and you can’t stop me.
What you read here is, in fact, but a partial publication of The Donaldiad; it is substantial, but it is not the full poem. The following selection is being published in tandem with a beautifully annotated edition released by Apocatastasis Press in both physical and digital versions. In wot edition, Reader, you have available my full footnotes, including a “who’s who” of the more obscure references and personages who trot across our coming pages. I believe these notes give a deeper scope to the work. If you would like to purchase the full Donaldiad, and help Apocatastasis Institute in the process, you may do so HERE.
As you know, The Donaldiad is a famous poem. Universities study it and mothers sing it to their newborns. Miners swing the shovel and rowers chant it to keep time. Whole sections have been taken as hymns for the breviary, and manys the dear protestant church besides. Men tattoo their favorite stanzas on their backs and arms, women on their breasts and tummies. Arabs weave it into mats and tack it up on their Kaaba.
For my own part I’ve met The Donaldiad on more than one street, and some alleyways besides. I knew this poem before she was a virgin. I’ve met her in the westerning sun near Storrs and in deaf Noyorican poets. She nibbled my ear at some Latin Masses before the Latin Mass people turned their rite fool (and their right fool besides). We frenched in the eyes of many a capitalist wage slave down through the days. For four years I sipped coffee with The Donaldiad and a certain selfless maiden—late turned matron—with silver dollar nipples and a heart as big as a giraffe’s in one sodding Danbury cafe. I slapped her manful back once in one triple amputee. This afflicted warrior juggled the precious hand of his three year old daughter as he fumbled for change in a pathetic contest with physics. I was 17 and he didn’t fall over. I will never forgive the bastard Bush for wot scene, but still will I recall Dame Donaldiad. And, when you daddies weren’t looking, this poem sparkled ‘neath the sheets in not a few of your daughters flashing eyes.
For all this, though, do you know the divine pedigree of this poem? Gather round and I’ll tell it you. The Donaldiad descended from heaven, as we’ll soon find out, falling liquid-like through the hands and prayers and hearts of four lovely ladies. It dropped in due course into the dreams of babies, all of them, on one single night, the whole world over. One remarkable tot awoke wot remarkable night and mouthed the whole Donaldiad as his first jabber. This infant was Chinese. He lived in Beijing at the time. His parents were prodigal bribers of the Biden family (almost to the point of absurdity) and they kept a townhouse off Central Park. This tot’s astonished parents took this remarkable baby to America in order to understand the poem’s cryptic profundity. Stopping for food before consulting wise round eyes in New York City, the baby recited this poem at a certain eatery late of Brookfield, Connecticut, Al’s Cookout by name. One Bates, a former truck driver and line cook, heard this story. On a slow night in the kitchen he taught it to Green Shirt, a coworker and contemporary Falstaff. Green Shirt relayed The Donaldiad root and branch to a certain inebriate teacher, a known eccentric and wanton layabout. And now you have it, dear reader. Yet in all this transference not a word has been changed. Let the song go on.
Beidh lá eile ag an bPaorach,
John C.

The Donaldiad
I
The Argument
Prologue. Beseeching the Muses for aid in telling this marvelous tale.
Tweet happy Muse of our tall hero orange
Drop inspiration from your heavenly syringe.
Sing forth of New York’s famous manly tycoon
Who a hero would prove and a national boon.
Text out to the weary planet expectant
The unheard of blow of the American electant.
The working man, cast out, so long reviled
So scorned, so mocked, so base yokel-styled
By shit lib nance so often chewed out
By stumping hack often libeled as “lout.”
Thrown under life’s bus by small gombeenmen
By coastal rich brahmans used as a bedpan.
Until the day wot unlikely champion
Decided to put right his nation’s gone halcyon
Days for the first time for banker-sieg’d citizens
Living anew its first founding principles.
Yes, comment below, inspiring Muse
Of creepy Deep State clutch Trump will soon bruise.
Of America’s long oppressed citizenry
Which himself will show optimistic’ly
For time first in a very long time.
Help us auld toilers wipe ‘way the grime
Of long-beleaguered grey discouragement
As we start, Muse, boost us with merriment!
Donald’s descent down the Trump Towers escalator. Happy at first, he is sore oppressed by the spirit of party and intrigue. Beezelbub alighting from Dis meets our hero and explains Gehenna’s supposed triumphs in the years ahead. Donald steels himself for hell’s blast.
As Donald Trump stood on a landing so high
He looked down and viewed each glitterin’ eye.
A thrilling, a happy, a gaysome display
To surely anoint this fateful bright day!
With dapper pressed suit and tall robust carriage
Standing next t’ pillar of his third marriage
Soon Trump will brave the media cannon
With rock solid council from rough Steven Bannon
Atop balcony of redsome fair marble
Up roared applause and crowd’s gladsome warble.
With iPhone’s a’ready and placards so steady
Dear Donald jumped head-first down history’s eddy.
As he now did, a strange and ponder’us spirit
Weighed so great he scarce could bear it.
A mighty, a heavy, a gloomy soul cloud
Oppress’d his heart as he now meets the crowd.
It wasn’t wot slithering tart dressed in white
With razor sharp fangs held back in limelight.
Nor Ersatz white Heb with schemes all a’brewin’
Wot made solid Donald’s joy turn to ruin.
It wasn’t the bussed-in leftist rough brawlers
Not rental mobs paid off with Soros’ Jew dollars.
It wasn’t Don’s lunch, it wasn’t some flu
It wasn’t cameras wot made his soul stew.
“What now,” he asked, “makes my perturbation
On this fine day for the whole nation?
My hands are free but shackled they feel
My shoulders seem weighed down by cold steel.”
Trump now thought back to Georgie’s departure
His wisdom words given for nation’s new nurture.
“Avoid well,” said he, “flee fast from faction
These words of mine are no passing abstraction!
“Republic you have, if republic can keep
Our lawyer-free nation was not bought dirt cheap.
For every last East Coast town mourns bold boys
Whose sobs and hurrahs were hardly white noise.
“Mind business your own, meddle not far afield
Scotch sect and clubhouse, Babel’s schisms soon healed.
Search not for monsters and goblins abreast
Do this and see America blessed.”
No sooner this counsel within him he said
Than come along friend to bend his grave head.
At once at his side on wot elevator
Appeared one fair poet all poets hail greater.
The arrival of Virgil. Donald is taken by him to the basement of Trump Tower where Deep State warlocks and witches try in vain to summon an evil hulking enough to defeat our hero.
Not now with sulfur, not with lavas’ dark carbon
Strode heaven’s fair hope for final conversion.
From up out of Limbo’s happy hale longing
Pranced wot old Virgil, dear grace’s clear dawning!
In author’s soft paw he grasped orange hand
Don’s heady predicament now to expand.
Just now before patent sole met stair tread
Virgil whisk’d Trump to beasement’s scenes dread.
Like boozy-bound hound on drunk bottoms’ rocks
One must weather the dark to rise bright like Fox
In Towers’ basement stood poet and rich man
To see a preview of hell’s grim game plan.
Encircled around a steamy hot cauldron
Flit sions of hell about potion scalding.
Wildly they danced and loudly they groaned
Donald’s election they already bemoaned.
On grimy gross floor fat rats scurried o’er
Weaving and dodging, Clinton looks lower
wot silver-gray vermin from Ind’ana do hail
In genus and species Penceius Michael are named.
Chief witch among them was Mena’s drug princess,
Now howling so soon to see campaign a’mess.
Stinking of sulfur and covered with flies
With Gaddafi’s thigh bone turns potion clockwise.
Attendant near hobbled Willy Brown’s girlfriend
Though whole of body on padded knees did wend.
With bended honkers hear now her shrill laugh
Ingredients hauled she on Madame Secret’ry’s behalf.
As Herod and Pilate’s ire did flower
Upon bloody plot for Christ to devour
So heaven in friendship makes handshake from glower
Here ambles the skeletor Samantha Power.
In rare honest moment the mattressback spoke up
Telling truth-starv’d world wot full was the cup
Of Hilary wicked, herself she called “monster”
Though doing so cost her the aid of her sponsor.
In time she would lick her self-casu’d wounds
As attentionless public found changed was their moods
Soon again this blood princess would find the criteria
To fling Uncle Sam’s legions now to dry Libya.
There Anne Applebaum mealy mouthed to the gills
Rabbi Yaley warlord, flat chest stuff’d with bills
You drink in by gallons the blood of Ukraine
To Russians your simp and you are Nord Stream’s bane.
There in a kennel next to base Bush
Is the moonface who led justice’s putsch
Pawning lawful hale path for legal’s weak view
See dungeon keep’s best friend, the fowl barrister Yoo
Lawyers themselves joke of convictin’ sammies
But Yoo took it further, extracting the sanies,
The teeth and the blood and the screams and the eyeballs
From Ahmed’s disciples immured ‘hind the high walls
By Guantan’mo Bay’s oriental deceiver
Who argued wot probe and batt’ry and cleaver
Could break the might of Islamic soul owners
Pansy Yoo ought to ask the jacked one-eyed Omar
Yoo’s cloven hoof scribbled out dark Bybee Memo
But no lawyer’s cant yet moved God’s justice supremo
While Edom’s gross pups blanched at Muslims herc’lean
God sent stealthy Trojan, the white lock’d Julian.
From outback forgotten hopped Assange to speak
Reddening the churls’ cheeks with WikiLeaks
Now smashing, now laughing, he stings like a scorpion
Like Lenin he spoiled spoilers with Guardian.
‘Spite Yales and PNACs, ‘spite Groves and Trilaterals
The War On Terror died with “Murder Collateral”
So Julian was hounded; Assange he was hunted
For Clinton and Schultz and Podesta affronted
Trump looks to his left, for left they all are
Of goodness and truth, God’s happy pole star
There in shade dark in this basement of pain
Is Ar’zona’s bagman, the traitor McCain
As spells keep on brewing and mischief a’stewing
Hanoi’s slippy songbird his iPhone is viewing
T’was just like the time at Syrian meeting
With lives on the line his poker game beating
But McCain deserves rest for he worked long and hard
To spike The Ukraine on the Maidan canard
A maverick he was not, John always supported
Each chance for a war, by Mars ever was courted.
In ages long gone some argued wot women
Would tame and contain male politics lumpen
But with Hillary vying for New Order grand
Struts frumpy blood-soaked Victoria Nuland.
In a sack o’er her back comes neocon broad
Dishing out cookies with cant and with fraud
For demons by millions she can barely contain
She lusts too for loot and the blood of Ukraine.
Here comes along in janky westerning age
The weird spirit cooker on our poetry stage.
With morning urine o’er nightmary dreams
Times’ artsy darling through smelly steam beams.
At back of crowd, shoved off and forgotten
Is “Shelley Duvall” and “Financier,” both rotten.
No one paid heed to either dumb slut
As now past each fool Bill’s anchor strut.
These pungent old whores, hear how they chortle
As circlin’ the pot they make their dark brew.
Up now they call hell’s doughtist stock
To skupper God’s choice of Donald The Rock.
Now hell has its laws like earth does and heaven
Those who do follow them learn this grim lesson:
Wot John Knox was right in blowing his trumpets
Of regiment monstrous, a world led by strumpets.
Infernal assistants come from the shadows carrying pseudo-men in dog kennels. They hope hell will be pleased by such pueling, virtueless half-men, these strange relics of effeminacy; the assistants hope these balless totems will strengthen their dark spell. Pity the fancies of the damned, Reader.
So after the witches’ file come some mere males
For men they were never, like dogs with droop’d tails
In bodies yet living come demon-stocked shades
Yes, males in appearance, yet soul’d with tabes.
Here hails the cartoon man, his art fouling youth
Doodlin’ the crude, making public uncooth
His talents of beauty turned gross, mean, and base
With Henry as neighbor, Kent was his birthplace.
Next trundles on chubby computer cruncher
His mind all endarken’d, small Silicone sponger
Summonin’ spirits of zeros and ones
His mind all enfanci’d with meaningless sums.
Sean The Deceiver, to lies is addicted
With CIA pin he set to afflicting
Lamiamh Ali and the innocent Arabs
From Fox’s pulpit he turned babies cherubs
Stain’d with blood, Hannity is a monster
Destroying his family, has hell as a sponsor
Neocon lackey, Republican disgrace
Adulterous puppet with whore Ainsley now mates
Henry Kissinger fowl is placed next to these
Addicted to power, he wielded the keys
Of globalist fancies he moved might and main
This plotting Khazar threw peace down the drain
More crimes than can count Kently ogre was guilty
Towards war slaves was cynic, spinned lies dark and filthy
Making Peace Prize a joke, Henry Cambodia bombed
Weaving death squads Hispanic, of Mars’ ways was fond
Alexander The Coopersmith kept in the cage
For society low-trust he wielded a swage
Wot greyly base scribbler, a cur to the core
Respectable bourgeois on Candlewood’s shore
Wot galvanized yuppie as trustless as low
Who friendship to wind he glibly did throw
Dominated by his wife, wot dumpy backbiter
As cold as a snake, as hack as ghostwriter
With estrogen stuffed, addicted to fear
This talentless author was bereft of cheer
Believe it or not, this male had a period
Insulting the scholar with gossip a’myriad
As Latinly teacher stabbed in the back by the scribbler
Wot greysome scared builder from virtue did demure
When dry, bloated wife decided to pickup
Cell phone and text pad, turned from friend to cur pup
When Byzantine baseborn, oppress’d by fear
Dishonored his children, made family name mere
Base trash on the street, how little he valued,
Wot ageing ghostwriter, the teacher he used.
Amidst the addicts of power comes one of the most craven, George W. Bush. His soul bearing witness to his crime of invading Iraq, his weak left hand energy is overcome by the hearty memories of Casey Sheehan, Muntadhar al-Zaid, and Thomas Young. Vanquished by their nobility, George the spiritual midget cowers in his kennel.
Last of the bitchboys is Crowley’s grandson
Destroying Iraq through his father’s rerun
On goat tricycle, Jeb’s letter in hand
In madness he paints bright blood put in sand
With fake Texas accent, blue collar demeanor
Bush Baby played his role as PNAC’s keen schemer
Too late now for regret, all good did forego
Bush thought back to how many lads he cut low.
How perpetual war machine took Casey Sheehan
From Palm Sunday’s Mass to battle Tartarean
His memory proved apathy’s sure antidote
At besieg’d Crawford’s his mother proved throat.
In body alive but soul snatch’d in hell
Bush The Destroyer in dog’s kennel does dwell
Come ‘long Ides Of March or near enough to ‘t
To Lynndie’s spoonful he yearly does submit.
Overcome with sight of the criminal Bush, pious Trump whispers praise of Iraq’s living and dead.
“God bless you Muntadhar al-Zaid, our friend!
Your shoes missed the bastard yet angels did lend
Their skill to yet strike down the Monster in stride
As painting his fool pics, death’s hour does bide.
Hello, Tomas Young! We remember how rotten
Was your destroyed youth ‘twixt Homeland and Bottom
On your dying days our love Phil did fix
How now you do stride with Tone and ‘Cinget’rix.”
Muling now Yaley plotter, Herbert’s brat he does splay
Coming now to his senses, Yankee man does betray
U.S. kids and A-rabs for Skull and Bones clique
Pray each night dead Iraqis your conscience will pique.
So like cats put in kennels, like lambs in their stalls
These eunuchs now crouched, they never had balls
Though Baals they did have in hearts with sad spell
To torpedo true Donald, Hads’ plans to propel.
The evil crew now commence their basemently spell hoping to daunt Trump from his imminent announcement. Pity the feeble schemes of hell, Reader, as weak as an acorn striking a moving train, as a woman striking a living man.
“Double, double,” they croaked, “Big Mike’s sweat and his stubble”
Saying as sprinklin’ in Trade Center rubble.
“Franklin Coverup teeth, hymens off Epstein airplanes
CCP Fentanyl and abandoned cremains.
“Missing Pentagon trillions hoping not to get caught
Fluffy cocaine from right off Mitch’s big yacht
Toss now Barbara’s bevy of misplac’d folders
Now panties, now bras from Fang Fang’s spy shoulders.”
Up and up the gross witches did call demons all
Flitting, flying, and coursing through land as they trawl
These hags long had traded souls, morals, and law
Callin’ up phantoms from hell’s black stinkin’ maw
This low malediction made Dis quake and shake
Up through the crust the tremors did snake
Moving water and soil, Earth rumbled and tumbled
Peeling through air the thunder now grumbled
With hollow surfeit like unchase’d night stand
As abortion mechanical at Parenthood Planned
Feminine spoilers with slaves catamite
Took shallow joy, Trump’s campaign to blight.
Donald wishes to remove himself from the dark assembly. Virgil inveighs on the necessity of viewing the scene, alerting our champion wot his run for office is lapping up against deeper tides than the visible.
Oh mighty Donald, but this you needs see
To brace your strong spine ‘gainst witch and banshee
Dirty and festering forces are rising
Excelling in intrigue like Nimrod’s devising
“Up now we go from basement seance
Atop we return to esc’lator luminance
Through all yet to come now you’ll walk lighter
Hell’s maw is vast but heaven smiles brighter
Oh, warrior heart, know the saints now are with you
Those sold out to deep state but ferment with sprue
Yes, candidate honest, like steely Cuchulain
You stand in the gap, you’re God’s mighty lynchpin!
Having returned from the sadsome basement, Virgil casts about for one who might, in solidarity and reparation, ease the blows to Trump and to nation which the Deep State doth plan. One victim fool is found.
Here Virgil piped up with inquest for all
“Is any about,” on each he did call,
“Who as mystery victim will offer his trials
Throughout these blows to push on with smiles
“Where is the victim, where be the stopgap?
Who is the man hell’s strength for to sap?
Who now the victim in reparation
To soften the blows for Trump and nation?”
No sooner our angel of heavenly weal
Called on a victim from out crowd’s conceal
Than stepped up a bearded inebriate teacher
Accepting Trump’s blows, his dear fellow-creature.
Virgil marvels at the sacrifice of the selfless volunteer who alone is strong enough to take the blows for goodly Trump and the beleaguered republic. Seeing into the future, Virgil recounts how the day of his betrayal – July 31st, 2018—becomes an worldwide anniversary of treachery.
Hesper now cautioned this generous soul
Price wot he’d pay, drinking dregs from the bowl
Hypocrisy, intrigue, slander, and cant
Examples the like were few and were scant
To lesson but little in mystical commerce
Proving true stay and not Doubting Thomas
This immolating pedagogical backer
Offered self betrayed by Karen and knacker
“Fine Donald,” he said, “Let me share a small ration,
Allow me some part of your trial to refashion
Into a good thing, a pain with a purpose
wot with fine stout men we’ll turn Deep State carcass.”
“What have you in mind and what should I call you?
Tell of your thoughts, of your aims give me clue.”
The teacher drank Dubra, he threw back some Twizzlers
His life once tranquil would soon turn to sizzler
When will this be done? Wonders Don and you Readers
Who’ll stand in the breach, though no others prove leaders?
A nibble from mountain of Trump’s opposition
This teacher he shoulders for nation’s contrition.
The day was appointed from creation’s foundation
When this lonely soul would stand as a Thratian
In rep’rations exchange he’d pay the defrayal
To take on the chin Ridgefield’s “Day Of Betrayal”
Astaghfirullah, God damn the day
When registered Christian would pule and they’d bray
They’d stab in the back their cheerful best friend
A school of a decade in a month they would end.
For years and for decades the world it would keep
This year’s mind to store up each base action cheap
For wicked mankind itself scarcely could heed
The treacherous fruit of trad Cath’s low creed
Ignatius’ day in afteryears yet proved
An’versary mendacious, all mischief excused
At hour when teacher was thrown under bus
Each action and word was base treacherous
Go weep and yet nash you Ridgefield low serpents
July thirty-first is your world’s sadly discordance
Each man he philanders, each woman she cuckholds
The niggerboys steal each item by truckload
Grown children this day push elders down stairs
As will-reading families learn there’re no heirs
Half ‘year’s nasty harvest of abortion’s dour quota
This day assigned demons see their annual rota
Luckless Loyola’s great day turns to mischief
As sold out whore churches sell out morals Christian
Choosing this day to incorporate legal
Turning from Gospel light to pile fecal
This grimsome black day wot one was cast out
By dumpy dry Karens who’d pule, piss, and pout
Complaining behind back of New Milford’s instructor
These stupid white women, Christ’dom’s destructor
“How meansome and low, how crushing the blow
Yet all be well worth this, should graces fast flow.
Besides this one here, no others could hold up
A man of such grit, drinking dregs from hell’s cup.”
This lowly base Vespers t’will find pockets engorg’d
By sugar and spoons and ketchups enlarg’d
Each post office desk bereft of chained pens
Bodegas find candy robbed from their shelves
Ridgefield’s sadsome day of blackest betrayal
All pissing small demons are let free from gaol
Tartarus dungeon spews wide from its bowels
Extra special meanness to liven churl souls.
Uriel da Costa well knew the laud
The caresses and hugs he got from the squad
Of pious pretenders with righteousness piled high
No tolerance given when convert turned gadfly
Scarce since the Garden had known mankind’s Fall
Barely since Gethsemane had seen Peter’s brawl
Had this auld earth by Satan wax sealed
With treacherous make as will accent Ridgefield
In memory living the only thing close
Was when Colin Powell his soul to sell chose
Wot gray winter’s day saw mensch turn to blackguard
Pawning hale good name poor Iraq to bombard
The teacher clears his throat and sings the following to the turn of Who Fears To Speak Of Easter Week?
With ne’er a break the female breeze swept into a typhoon
Unchecked, unhalted general life upsidedown was turned
Intrigue replaced the manful tack, and chaos, ordered life
‘Til sentiment and passion ruled, and passiveness was rife
Besotted with this estrogen the men became insane
Pornography and substances made living lives a bane
Bugged out on safety and false smiles, they set their knives to flesh
In suicide and gender shifts as lawyers’ pelf incresed.
What stems the tide, what sets things right to order energies
Of men and women in harmony and freedom through the land?
Teach boys and girls comportment fair throughout their school’d days
Do this, and drive all lawyers out, and you’ll have sanity!
Taken aback by the seance below, yet heartened by the selfless volunteer, Donald and Virgil return to the escalator landing within Trump Towers. Our orange tycoon ponders in his soul. Can he really commence his presidential run? How can one humble man such as he scupper the conspiracy of hell? The weighty decision hangs in the balance, anxious Reader. With the basement spell successful, various powerful demons begin to engage our true Donald in single combat.
Back now upon the landing high
Up slouch’d a man, Don’s soul to try.
All death-doom’d eyes, save one, were veiled
As a blacksome, filthy cloak it trailed.
“Pleas’d to meet -,” this stranger extended,
His clawy paw, Don now apprehended
The plan afoot. “I’m Bee-zel-bub,
Illustrious member of famed ‘Downstairs Club.’”
Trump all reserved stands back and aloof
Waiting for ‘Bub’s infernal proof.
Now quiet thinks Bee’, I’ll recruit loud man…
Twicely he thinks, assur’d failed will be his plan.
The poker-faced sphinx does rally so quickly
Bee chooses one blow to land so sickly.
With 666 shots of Dutch courage
‘Zel’ chooses one path for Don’s discourage:
Thinks Bub to himself, “Don’s strength is a’plenty
But Trump’s future woes are like Creeping Jenny.”
Then Beezelbub he hatch’d his plan
To make Don truly the loneliest man.
“From out of the gate I’ll now tell you flat
You will win this race, and wot is all wot.
Cathedral foul will treat you with piggery
For all of this you’ll out-fox cruel Hillary.
But don’t you breathe easy, don’t dare to sleep well
Here now I tell you the works of dark hell
Which soon down upon will fall on your head
Of woes and of burdens you’ll soon come to dread.
“I’ll tell you now what is soon to occur
‘Twill smell ripe to me as the sweetest of myrrh.
By every man you will be the lone outcast
Dear Trump you will know the mob’s fearsome blast.
You’ll not have a week, a day, or an hour
In wot largely White House without the glower
From pawn preceding your days in command
As wicked Obama will marshall his band
Not a moment he’ll rest when without his office
Wot he’ll not be larding D.C. with Swamp tophus
To spoil and subvert your every wise chess move
With Hillary vanquished he’ll give all the cue
Soetoro will not need to spend his time reading
At paperless library scholars not seeking
With time on his hands Barry will spend his each effort
Arm wrestling Big Mike and you to subvert
Frank Marshell’s love child from CIA mother
Wot whore who gave Barry his Agency cover
Backgroundless man, Melchizedek sponger
Arrested in Moscow as CROWN’s errand runner
This sly and base faggot will dog your each move
As jack’d Michelle his biceps will improve
Returning from long days pledged to your falling
In Big Mike’s big arms he’ll rest with his darling
Mind wot you not wakeboard at dark midnight
Though wide be your carriage and tall be your height
From Vinyardly kitchen to water mere inches
Mime cops haul chef’s body by cables and winches
Becoming the end of endless lies
By ball-less base men you’ll be bad advised.
Your every triumph will soon be debased
By prideful boys with lies bold-faced.
“Your victories near will be pulled down
By talking heads with paid-off frowns.
Your efforts ‘yuge’ for nations’ children
Will be writ off by lies’ strong building.
“Not only near you’ll be restricted
Far afield you’ll be evicted:
For slant-eyed Muslims you’ll go to bat
Still Siam’s cries will fall full flat.
From Big Mike’s boy-toy you’ll wrest Ukraine
Fillin’ guts of God’s belov’d with grain.
But I’ll be back with schemes so sure
Twill’ make you rue your heart’s aim pure.
NATO will burn Donboss with fire
Mere children’s play was ancient Tyre.
From happy hearts and widesome smiles
Their shopping outings will turn to trials.
From White House cast to Maralago
From Housman’s ‘Hero’ I’ll turn you Drago.
From leader true I’ll turn you clown
I’ll make Yanks bark for long gone Crown.”
Then, go fie and go fee, the vote will come ‘round
USB’d and Dominioned, the truth will be bound
By shredding machines and two-thousand mules
With Fox News and papers and media tools
Republican Party is bought for and paid
Playing varsity junior, they’ll lend you no aid
If bribe money vanquishes not civil shrews
Mind well Mitch McConnelly, his hands and eyes blue
Nation outrag’d will flock to your succor
Old Guard appears to fight Prussia’s Blucher
Rallies one and two growing, how patriots drew
To your side on the sixth, your forlorn Waterloo
See Ray Epps and feds, COINTELL patsies
Lure salt-of-earth voters, too guileless to see
Watch Mossad and Kiev’s Security Service
Stage uprising bogus to make sheeple nervous
Somber Donald steps off by himself. Still unresolved in his decision to run for President, he meditates on the craven example of Joseph Biden. He marvels not wot men sell their souls, but at how cheaply they do so. Hear Donald sigh, and quietly say,
A sour mood and sickly taste,
and hungry feeling with me abide.
Four full score of years and some to boot,
With lifetime’s worth of bluff have died,
A country gone, not to return.
‘Neath fearsome Plan now fast astride.
At center stage is now a man,
For his cursus honorum he gave all:
Energy and youth and integrity
But nary a sincere day for all his calls.
A fakesome smile with phony teeth on presarrang’d news.
For this Shakespeare now stands upon the Mall.
Himself has done no more, no less
Than a city-stuffed by feckless men with footling wives
Would do to stay about and press the flesh, and every day by inches die
And while away within a broken city one little life
Bounded with a broken pentagram.
And endless dinners in archon’s fife.
Holy men serve holy causes,
As chinless men serve chinless wraiths,
And wot a liar’s crew entrenched upon two coasts
In studios and office blocks should daily work at treason’s lathe
And should dissimulate, no man would fret or furrow brow.
Ah, but to have collapse where once there was faith!
One season brief did in a generation
Of benefits given to doubts towards, at base, what was always a coward’s crew:
And when push came to shove, all betrayed all,
“You’re all very special people,” too
And his orange self has shown a nary one arraignment;
And men rot, and still stands the Coup.
And so I close with Old Joe,
Old Creepy Joe, Old Sleepy Joe, Old Sniffy Joe,
Worse off than myself in all my orange glory (alas, to be betrayed and betrayer),
Old Lonely Joe draws the deepest pathos of all, drinking the Swamp’s clow:
A confus’d husk who never did more nor less
Than took to spend a life working in a broken pentagram.
Old Joe, with your fake teeth peering through your fake smile,
The pet of wot barrister who waits on tenterhooks
For your heart to stop, her Elmanite self the pet of generals,
Themselves but the toy of greater crooks,
As Oscar said while tromping on a hamster wheel,
“He who lives more lives than one, more deaths than one must die.”
With sagely deft advice from counselors sober
Demurring the trap you’ll withdraw from malodor
To princely Palm Beach you’ll discerningly retrench
Lessons to learn, four years on the back bench
Like Helena’s caged titan you’ll think on the missteps
Wot Deep State and craven on your backbone schlepped
How trust of the trustless had let MAGA down
Away worthless Kushner! Begone Swamply frowns!
Amidst lawfare and cant, vicious libel and slander
The movement and yourself will push through with candor
Taking blows on the chin, for the people you’ll take whacks
Biding, learning, and praying, you’ll make a fierce comeback
From glib and light to grave Don turned
To see such fiendish plots unfurled.
To know such wicked schemes apace
On this first day of his bles’t race.
Trump he rallied and stood upright
Once downin’ stairs he’ll face his plight.
One thousand thoughts did quickly flurry
For country’s weal he now did worry.
From deftly well built goldsome Trump scala
Our mightiest hero cast eyes to Allah
This excitable moment now soured with cares
Mechanical lift turn Gemonian Stairs
For all readers know of those dolesome red treads
Where many’s the luckless drank anger’s dregs
As princips bumped senate, so Stairs replaced Rock
As being the site for canaille to gawk
“Come headsman, come hangman,” Trump thought with weight
“Hail turnkey, hail peeler, bring on my fate.”
His task now at hand increas’d by measure
Now a heavenly duty, no longer vein pleasure.
Beezelbub croaked up once more
He told of hell’s coming downpour.
He spoke of schemes and intreague’s brew
Then sidled up more evil crew.
II
The Argument
Beelzebub is interrupted by Lucifer. The larger state of the land beyond Donald’s immediate administration is discussed. Our hero is shaken anew, though in his heart of hearts he will weather it all for love of nation and heritage. Marvel in these estrogenated days, intelligent Reader, at a man unbroken and unbowed.
Now Beezelbub did clear his throat
He scanned the list he lately wrote.
No sooner words did leave wot cur
Then Donald saw foul Lucifer.
“Shut up! Shut up, you ball-less bitch!
Let now proud Luke begin his pitch!:
Your loudest brags, your loudest boast
Have barely irked our orange host.
Domestic boon can barely swoon
God’s mighty man from granite hewn.
But let me show this basesome pup
The dregs he’ll drain from hell’s deep cup.
Policies nearby, who really cares?
Domestic boon is for Upstairs.
The plot in Dis is the Long Game
One breath ceded to true acclaim.
We’ll bite our tongues, we’ll chomp our thumbs
We’ll play the possum, we’ll play stone dumb.
Like cat with mouse, like boy with blouse
We’ll let the land its soul announce.
Each of our cells will sore object
With our lone souls we’ll long reflect,
For minutes long we’ll hold our powder
When last we speak we roar much louder.
We’ll let the land from Kristol breathe
Neocon Mars his sword will sheath.
The Weekly Standard we’ll shelve for now
For wars on terror, a shortsome ciao.
Yet all the while, each pulse and breath
We’ll set the stage for MAGA’s death.
For while you smile with manly carriage
From MSM we’ll spew disparage.
Then unbeknownst within your ranks
We’ll hit your manful works on flanks.
A fake white Jew we’ll subtly seed
His selfish schemes your strength will bleed.
By son-in-law’s kosher guile
A friend to face, to others, beguile
His shallow wife, foul Edom’s pride
Her vainly self your woe betide
For in your time of greatest need
When from your heart nation you’ll plead
I’ll filch the vote from out your hand
As Zion’s Jared does Saraband.
Back you’ll sweep dark Davos’ crew
“Sit down! Fear not the prophets of doom!”
Be men, fight on, build boon all national
Serve your people, do all things rational.”
But men who dream mirages dig’tal
Have work to do, each labor criminal.
Say you proud, “Put workers first!”
Each every while their ire to nurse.
To bide their time for three long years
They’ll backroom pace with glob’list peers.
Then Davos’ crew will turn their backs
From wot time hence GAE battle ax.
Foggy Bottom boys will play umpire
To build their Global Amer’can Empire.
GAE spooks who high strung up Saddam
Dishonored Gaddafi, Assad did bomb
While dripping blood and flecking gore
They’ll now reach into intrigue’s drawer.
They’ll stretch far back, they’ll grunt, they’ll crow
Their hand to fasten on rainbow.
Now dashing out yon sadsome door
Our dipl’mats will hoist once more
Imperial banner of mirthless might
With sparkles and sequins the world to fright.
To rouse the rabble with dossier of Steele
Of Russian collusion the aire to peel.
Then we’ll set our hand to your impeachments
We’ll lard the press with pious preachments.
With charges two drawn from whole cloth
We’ll make your foes to rage and froth.
Pudgy Vindman, he is our guy
His slovenly soul was cheap to buy.
As pots have oft’ called kettles black
We shout “Putin!” as we make attack.
But in the slander which we will fain
Men “Rus” will hear but know “Ukraine”
Is nest of crooks and sticky cons
Of snowwhite Jews and chinless pawns.
For not Moscow but patsy Keev
Will hold our servers in sad Kislev.
A pirates’ cove was turned Ukraine
Drugs and flesh to traffic, fool men to chain
We’ll waste a week, a month, some years
We’ll stoak the herd with media sneers
“Over your call to Kiev’s clown
We’ll board and shutter D.C. town.
While it may seem a hole-in-one
What Creepy Joe did for his son
“There’ll not be one thing, no word or action
Where journalist will give you sati’faction.
When we are all through with trashbag family,
The mobster, the grandstander, wot crackhead travesty
“Will come out yet still smelling of roses
With Ukraine’s fraud under everyone’s noses.
Yet for phone call to leather-clad president
Your loyalty doubted through all the occident.
“For years yet to come our media brats
Will slander your aid to red and white hats
While they soap box and waste the public’s time
Reportin’ on hiccups and foibles, but never a crime
“Not ever a word from televised slaves
Of Orthodox boys we’ll put in their graves.
For, Donald, you see it is our fond creed
Puttin’ parties in strife wot all may much bleed.
“Thus for many’s a moon and several’s an age
The dumb sons of Adam we’ve all played backstage
Again and anon how clueless they’ve been
How often we’ve set them against their own kin.
“For each nation and faith, and family and party
We’ve sown schism’d divorce with laughter all hearty.
But never not ever have clueless comm’ners
Caught on, distracted by aural provocateurs.
“With pressure afield for long time a’building
Screws we will turn by each lout and mean hilding
As subtle as snakes we’ll unravel your hem
Every lieutenant will break when you need them.
“Like God’s Rottweiler who ran from Rome’s wolves
In duds all a’white and red shoes for his hooves
You’ll sooner jack mountain high up in the air
Than hive-minded bureau’racy stir from its lair.
“With exception but one, the Fox News young blond
All allies will leave you in new backwards Fronde
Like Christ in the garden or Kurds in lost Bosra
By closest kith betrayed while yawnin’ “Sera.”
Only one of the thousands of men whom you’ll hire
Like Sempronius Densus your weal will desire
Though man she’ll not be, but every inch woman
To the last only Kayleigh will prove loyal as kin.
“Like God-knows-where man, hung young Thomas Russell
As headstoneless Hamlet still itching to tussle
See gray-coated corporal maroon’d by hearts meansome
Or lone William Wallace by short Jack made glum.
From the baseborn Mike Pence a dagger will fly
Your last civil safety he’ll turn all awry
More trustless than Mucapor and slimy sick Ridgefield
His motives from you always well concealed.
“Like hopeless caused Casement on Good Friday shore
Cast out by Black Diary fool Irish fell for
As Hymen-clad families in Huguenot woe
Had summer rays beam down on Cat’s void escrow
“Like Calvin’s fond babies in Piedmontese pass
With Catholics tromping their blood in Rome’s chasse
As Cristero’s brave peons laid low with Yank shrugs
Their grandbabbies kenneled in Seir’s “War On Drugs.”
“You too, manly Trump, will end up like these
A fateful late triumph in hell’s destroy’d frieze
You haven’t the brains, much less you’ve the brawn
To keep freedom going, much less see it dawn.
Having explained the snares which await Trump, should he commit to a presidential race (and, thus, certain victory), Lucifer now declaims on the pretended personnel “scores” – both victims and sellouts—of the administration ahead. Oh, Reader, marvel not wot men sell their souls; rather, stand agape at how cheaply their sell them.
The masses we’ve thralled by film screen and newsroom
Believe each false missive and chatter and spume
The day will yet come when men’s thousands of steps
Will follow the flute of the Fed called Ray Epps
“If these enough were not,” now Luke he did crow
“See now and gander on souls who lie low.
View true and marvel on base bitches many
Eyes without sparkle in holes like the blenny
Hell furnishes, too, many backstabb’d fools
Dupes for the slick Coachman’s us’d mules
In Hadestown one should expect nothing less
“Not A Thing Do We Stand For” is their looser’s fesse
“To wit I adduce the puppet Guaido
Scare ever so nude a coup through him did show
Our poly sci kids built him up to the sky
Then Acting actor was left high and dry
See Ashraf Ghan’i with favor reversed
Stuffed bags and valises with cash near to burst
Goin’ off in his car before talibs’ deen pistic
A dropped hot potato in GAE’s plays autistic.
Last is Zelensky the clown who will fall fast
On One World stage he has rightly been cast
With southern organ at piano plays on
Too busy with coke to read the Strategikon
At least when he’s dropped he can scramble up sex hill
As atom bombs reign down then he will thrill
To think of his mansions at Tampa and Rishpon
Giant closets for green tees he did long insist on.”
Thus Neocon errands all die in disaster
For a season they rib the masses and stir
Then they gin up anew some other fool scheme.
Galumphing to failure time and again.
“Not only abroad with good guys and bad
Does down below kingdom make its will sprad
Those who too they think have knowledge abundant
By smug hubris cut down with laughter indundant.
“To wit see the last chance to stave off uprising
Ad Buster’s fluke rally took all by surprising
The Occupy men in Depends put stockjobbers
Zuccotti Park flood’d with agent provac’tours
“Discernment is always the good old boy’s weak point
When Hesper with freedom these youth did anoint
Our media hoes for a moment turned Right
As conservative Christians on ruse they did bite
“With mics a’flagstaff’d and cameras rolling
The Church and the Radio proved themselves drolling
Never again could a man take them serious
As repeating pigs’ statements in accents imperious
“So the masses they shrugged at exertions of gay youth
Who dared to live out childhood’s maxims insooth
Embalme’d adults spit and laughed at their children
Who in piety struck a blow with hope building.”
With a Kamala-like chortle Luke balled his hot fist
As he thought of each hell-won win on his list
He pounded the table in premature triumph
Smiling a grin of hell’s dead lost defiance.
Of words and throat exhausted, Lucifer withdraws. With the presumption of hell, the fiend believes his mission accomplished. Fool he! For while mighty Donald’s heart is heavy and his countenance – handsome and gay in happier days—is now sober and sorrowful, still our hero has not decided against his presidential race. (Hope springs eternal, Reader; marvel at the goodness of heaven.) But, avast! Watch another devil up come to do fierce combat with our orange champion; see Abaddon, known b’times as Apollyon.
With this declamation Luke’s voice was now hoarse
Sid’lin’ up escalator comes harpie in due course
“Oh Trump wot is nothing to what you will feel
New Abaddon said, “Near woes I’ll reveal.
“We’ll load your poor back with cares full and many
With outrages high we’ll make your days wenny
Your friends we will stoke with protest acts feeble
To “terrorists” termed by deceptions called legal.
As avalanche started, like initiative ringside
When Dis gets its strength up through grace do we gride
Unless check’d by Queensbury, physics, or bruiser
Vice soon as grace enjoys momentum’s diffuser.
So Donald know this as soon as I stand
When hell the vote will filch out of your hand
The jungle man honest, true blue charismatic
Next on chopping block, his head below mattock
For the wine called Dominion is heady and strong
Once ingested our schemes stretch manys furlong
Bolsonaro, like you, will be clearly wronged
The courts and news paid off, our plots multi-pronged
Thus the marbled-tongued garglers of limpid-said speech
With grandpappies all naked, each morning a smile
Our bastard schemes cooking will cause calm to rage
Odd-planned out Braslia will fly to a stand
Brown-swath’d good hearts for bright right and justice
By Edom’s sad lawyers Brazil turned fuscous
The shit-eating python who dub all men foes
Who dare question straw polls and Jair to depose
So stabbed-up tongue speaker with manful resignment
Will path beat to Palm Beach while heaped with malignment
With Protty colada through eyes dimmed and sad
Mar-A-Lago’s lov’d exile rides yet with Gal’had.”
Abaddon jabbered with prom night hot glee,
“Ho! See cricket victor, from P.M. to bawbee
Quran devotee, healing people of cancer
To Mir Jafar’s deep hurt Imran is the answer!
Kari Lake, TV anchor, we’ll cut you down too
Katie Hobbs countin’ votes your vict’ry will skew
Arizonaland’s filled with manys our thane
One expects nothing less from the land of McCain.”
You thought for a day to have plowed under Omar
O’er Saddam’s strung up carriage you loud blew your shofar
But from his bomb’d home Gaddafi proved speedbump
Assad, allies’ betrayed, was more of a speed hump.
Stumbling from failure to misbegot woe
Arab Spring fizzled fast, sure, Talibs proved foe
In hunger for egg rolls you’d turn Ukraine boudin
As Dhu Qarnayn tips his turban to Putin
A jailbird shapes up, does God and man right
By Spirit reformed, wins inward graced flite
Thinking his walls, his guards, and his whips
Birth’d new man, “I did wot!” lawyer quips.
“The saw-zall regent: big of beard, weak of back
Cut as you will, Jamal’s voice it does clack
For Lewjain Al Hadool, turning screws on the Sauds.
Build Wall high as sky, t’will hide not your frauds.
Though hide Gaza young ones you spared not expense
West Bank’s cold anguish you tried hard to cense
Still rabbis’ perfume fools not Logo’s men
ADL, MSM hinders not free man’s ken
Still and all Omar’s lads will clear win the day
Sweeping clear Edom’s war slaves entic’d by pay
Truth now has come and falsehood fast vanished
August dawn will cheer men for democracy famished
Hurrah and three cheers for the down and cast out!
Bold Donald’s true peace plan destroyed for some clout
Heaven’s stout truth bursts through darkly lies all
ANA’s runnin’ rabbits spooked by Kandahar’s drawl
When Dominion dominions your sorry orange hide
While many salty men of earth to heaven will have cried
Each and every civil stopgap will full buckle and will break
No more would one e’er expect from Brad, Georgia’s snake
By bullies and by bribes, by blackguards and blackmail
Manys t’ hireling civil punk from patriot call will quale
All know administrative minds are dull as lead and dark
But at wot sadsome season all saw Bar’s rot so stark
In manys the quiet pious heart your cause will dearly burn
Plentys the soulfelt prayer will fly wot wrong will soon adjourn
Wot right will out but once in life wot oft’ sees evil strut
Alas, your autumn hope, and theirs, consumed in hell’s blind gut.
When our Ukrainly plans will finally collapse
And Rus’ stout hosts make NATO’s dreams to lapse
We’ll bounce back to Shams with another stooge army
Of fanatics and losers, drug addict fools smarmy
As you come back for round two and plate full of chaos
Will gum up you works, your good plans make lost cause
Good luck draining The Swamp with world smoking and blazing
In Gaza and Georgia, in Yemen and Ukraine.
III
The Argument
Beezelbub is interrupted by Satan. Agendas larger and farther afield are detailed. Coronavirus. Agenda 2030. Arhiman mentioned. Stunned Donald is speechless at the mendacity shown him. Donald is a wise weigher of fortune, and his humility advises him he is not up to the herculean task of breaking the opposition arrayed against him. In his pocket Donald grasps the vial of dirt he keeps from Arlington Cemetery and his First Class relic of St. Peter Arbues. Take heart, Reader, for Donald’s spirit revives.
“Form up! Adelante!,” Hesper loud roared
As by companies rallied noblemen hoards
As noble they were in deeds and in spirit
Not through flatt’rin’ title by barrister smear’d
The best wot low Scratch could rally for him:
One hundred sad eunuchs, balls Pertinx trim’d
In the weirdest bride present you ever did hear
For archons’ fetes are affairs always drear
Those poor bastard’s souls still haunt this auld earth
Resentful and sullen, spiteing in dignity’s dearth
Shades lodged in each lawyer, each cop, all the spineless
For lessons hard learned Life’s weal ever timeless
These miserable sprites hell makes guardian angels
Hark! Ball-less once-men to virtue’s deeds dangerous
They squat upon congress, duma, and dail
Men’s holy republican spirit to foil
Isaiah once marveled at kings’ true self seen
Nations and earth shook at hearts dull and mean?
How could such small peons in worth and in power
Have made all mankind to quake and to cower?
Having returned from the dolorous basement of the Trump Towers, our titan and his guide get their bearings in a backdoor alleyway before returning to the golden escalator. Watch Satan attempt to rally a train of those sluggish souls who sold their name and their clan, their people and nation. As Scratch gathers the sold, behold!, see a Parade Of Heroes file by, each saint eager to encourage true Donald in his mission. Watch Virgil quietly smile.
Not a moment had Hesper to to tarry with thought
As he summoned sage Donald to see men he brought
Not the bollocks bereft bitchtitted baseborn
But barrel’d-chest titans to God’s true cause sworn!
Burning candle man felled foreign troops by the scads
A smile upon his bloodied face, “Did we win lads?”
His tired auld pistols burn’d hot and or’used
As Free State mean sellouts and Tans well were bruised.
The buffeted pontiff from the sleazy slick state
‘Twixt ethnic fanatics and Russians was blate
On Lady procession spoke loud and prayed whispers
In rising from shooting asked, “Did we make Vespers?”
See Canadian truckers, true patriot souled
By Maggie and Castro’s kid left in the cold
Beat down and ignor’d by WEF’s table slaves
The man of glued eyebrows drives grace to the caves.
Sam Gompers, Bill Hayward, Joe Hill we see next
Wobbly titans of justice making bosses distressed
Reminding the workers they hold all the power
A new world they bring, just waiting to flower
One big union for toilers throughout the world
Fair wages and leisure, their banner’s unfurled
Striking fear in the spoilers for capital grasping
Shoulder-to-shoulder to labor’s cause clasping.
Stepping away from his pals, Joe Hill opens his little red song book and begins to sing The Ballad Of Jim Larkin.
In Dublincity in 19 and 12 the boss was rich and the poor were slaves
The women working and childers starving then on came Larkin like a mighty wave.
The workers cringed when the bossman thundered, 70 hours was his weekly chore
They asked for little and less was granted, lest gettin’ little then he’d ask for more.
From his posh suite up in Kingstown Murder Murphey heard discontent
He smoothed his silk suit, he lit a new pipe, then he said, “What shall I do?”
Stockjobber brothers said, “Don’t worry, you’ve a crew of base hirelings
They have no savings, you’ve seen to that well; they’ll never ever last a strike.”
In the month of August the bossman told us, “No union man for me can work!”
We stood be’ Larkin and told that bossman, “We’ll fight and die, but we will not shirk!”
Eight months we fought and eight months we starved, we stood by Larkin through thick and thin.
But foodless homes and the crying of childers, it broke our hearts, we just could not win.
Then on came Larkin in 1913, a union man with a mighty tongue
He cheered the workers, he helped their families, and he was gifted and he was young.
God sent Larkin in that stark summer, a burly man with a furious tongue
He roused their spirits, he helped the strikers, he was their hero, the worker’s son.
With the walk off Dublin’s owners had a problem on their hands
Their flabby bellies and their weak limbs never worked a day their lives.
They beat the bushes and found young men, lads more desperate than our own
They shipped these scabs to cut our legs off; we only fought them more.
Dublin Corporation’s pensioned peelers toddled down O’Connor Street
They palmed their nightsticks, their pockets jingled, workers’ faces for to beat.
Then on that Bloody Sunday melee came a man with a false beard
It was our Larkin, he’d come to cheer us, haranguing from Murphey’s stoop.
Then Larkin left us, he’d gone to England, a Fiery Cross for some sympathy
From London and Southampton workers joined hands across the sea
But union bosses were worse than useless and there’d be no general strike
With friends like these you’d not need foemen, Dublin’s heroes pushed on alone.
Then Jim was picked up, he’d been arrested, the night was black for the workingman
But on came Connolly with new hope and counsel, he told us workers, “We’ll rise again!”
The ICA was formed that autumn to stave off their gendarmerie
We drilled with Jack White, we oiled our Mausers, and we kept them in arms reach.
In Dublincity in 1916 the English soldiers they burned our town
They shot our leaders, they shelled our buildings, the harp was buried beneath the Crown
“The Irish people will only be free when they own all from plow to stars
When we’re through with their British army, we’ll take our flails to their gombeen men!”
They shot McDermott and Pearse and Plunkett they shot McDonagh and Clarke the brave
From bleak Kilmainham they took their bodies to Arbour hill to a quicklime grave
Last of all of the seven leaders they shot down James Connolly
The voice of labor, the voice of justice, he gave his life that we might be free.
Smiling Jim Larkin thrusts his fist in the air and returns to the parade.
Comes now Laughin’ Boy with sherry and champagne
A youth of high ideals ceded pol’tics to pain
Dolor was it wot made his boardly art gay
In borstal and bar men sing his songs today.
In Chelsea’s famed inn Janis does haunt
With Len on bed her ghost does saunt
To wall with Brendan’s words grav’d in steel
The world his big heart does until today it does feel.
“To America, him who makes base hatred unfurled”
Like you Trump, “Is punk who hates all of the world.”
Clinging to railing with babies long gone
Behan’s last words, like Virgil’s, were mercy’s fair dawn.
Tim Vakoc again is hearty and hale
In center of God’s will his pasture and dale
Remember, good Trump, his broken body
Bush will answer for this when he meets his qadi
See Father Vakoc when hearty and hale
On sacerdal occasion entered tear’d vale
A vocation of presence to troops far afield
Coming back from the Mass for trial now was sealed
An unpriestly priest, unsoldierly soldier
Conformed to Christ’s passion, clearly nachfolger
“The safest of places in God’s will to be
Yet war’s redsome blast, to this I agree
Forged in the fire tromps on wounded Roever
Though burn’d by phosphorus in trial was no loafer
All things occured wot he spread the Gospel
Redeeming his trials, to Satan was hostile
Leading the wounded to salvation in Christ
To mentor the broken in life would suffice
Empowering nation with God’s gracely smile
Restoring the fallen to life without guile
Mario Savio hale, hearty, and young
Words for the ages at tyranny flung
For time comes when machine is too hard to bear
One must throw self in gears, if only they dare
And dare they must do, for to take part they cannot
In odious system to resist they ought
A body exists at base to foil weasels
To jam ‘midst the levers and wheels of base evil
See yon high school medic, and aid to his people
Shoulders cast back, as proud as a steeple
BLM trash he humbled and halted
Though name-changing Gaige attempted to fault him
Kyle Rittenhouse steps out of the Parade Of Heroes and sings patient Trump this song to the tune of My Little Armalite.
This fat old BLM man come trotting down our street
He’d 600 anarch-kiddies all lined up at his feet
Roaring, “Come on out you Nazi boy, come and out and fight!”
He said, “I’m only joking,” when he heard my Armalite.
Chorus:
And it’s up in Kenosha wot’s where I long to be
Protecting gas stations with some fellows next to me
With a patriot on my left, ay, another one on my right
And a bunch of ammunition for my little Armalite.
Well hirelings came to visit me, t’was in the early hours
With communists and anarchists attacking parked cars
They thought they had me cornered, but I gave them all a fright
When I opened up upon them with my humble Armlite.
To our city come Antifa squealing, “I cannot breathe!”
They burned down all the buildings, and they all refused to leave
They rioted, they looted, went strong for 80 nights
Until I started aiming with my darling Armalite.
The reds come to Kenosha, to riot just for fun
For the DNC had told ’em, “The cops are on the run”
George Soros’ men at meetings now somberly do say
“If you ever catch Kyle aiming, boys, haul your hide away!”
Kyle waves at dear Donald and rejoins the Parade Of Heroes.
Two friends walk abreast, the oddliest couple
Hanna’s sport duo in charity’s huddle
Lifelong football coach and perpetual junior
Someone to lean on in sportsmanly humor
Scott Ritter strides by, addicted to truth
For pacific injunctions libeled as uncouth
With throat and arm stout, lies haven’t a chance
Where’er Neocons slugs mean to advance
And speaking of wheelers, Father Bill rolls on by
Hope never dimmed, always brightly of eye
Atkinson’s trials never slowed down nor skuppered
Vocationaly mission in passion discovered.
Teaching youth for three decades their doctrine and deen
B’ gracely demeanor the children soon learned to glean
Grave lesson wot soul grow but when it suffers
How did he do it? Borrowin’ strength from the others.
Speaking of pastors – hark! – anon Liteky
In Vietnam earned ribbon blue, medal glitt’ry
Through discernment thought twice, award hurling back
At Capitol whorehouse and Johnson’s base pack.
Vietcong army was dogged and driving
Colonial puppet always despising
Cynic leaders civil threw Boomers in trash
Youth ended quick in gore and blood ash.
Charlie Liteky once saved twenty soldiers
The dying he blessed, hefting wounded on shoulders.
Giving life to peace movement, never counting the cost
Dreaming a world with war gone as exhaust.
Hearty Charlie Liteky who ministered well
Lyndon’s baubles did your conscience not quell
In envelope sealed you shipped them to Ronnie
In battle and fast your justice was brawny.
Daithi O Conaill leading on heroes Fergel and Sean
From the peelers of Curragh you quickly were gone
The Provos’ strong pillar, givin’ talks on the run
Going on the blanket early, every sellout you did shun.
Ruairi O Bradaigh, thick as thieves with Hoban
Training rebels in woods, Eire Nua was his plan
With Jerry O’Rossa, Fenian flame you did carry
As foul Gerry and Marin, Sinn Fein tried to bury.
Ho, Wesley Clark! From war slave to herald
Whose throat was truth’s trumpet, whose chest was full-barreled
He ripped up the grubs ‘neath PNAC’s astroturf,
“Seven years to beat down seven nations as scurf.”
Having shushed Lucifer, Beezelbub is now silenced by Satan who intones the more abstract machinations of hell. Donald, late bouyed by the cavalcade of saints, braces like a man for new sadsome revelations. Will he in fact run for President? The world waits the momentous decision, fair Reader.
Heaven itself rises up and anon
The holy speedy soul does see the True One.
But hell too and sheol has its subbasements
Sure, darker devils file out of its casements.
Thus Beezelbub too is shushed by cruel Satan
For every hellish maw does once now weigh in
Like pueling snot brat or stomping spoli’t child
When heaven checks hell’s schemes, devils sore riled.
With wider bright smile and greater green guile
From down fast below comes Satan through aisle,
Betwixt’d the large crowds and up escalator
Like a smarmy, ingratiatin’, tip-hungry waiter.
“Well, howdy do, you? And, you, howdy do?”
Said he to sage Donald, spitting Skoal chew.
“Wot trip it was wild, wot journey was weird
A tougher excursion than Obama’s wife’s beard!”
“What have you seen thus from these lesser devils
Who prate and brag big in hell’s higher levels?
Have you they full daunted through suffici’nt work
To have you flee right now, to make you bitch shirk?”
Harken right close and grim will I tell you
Of rogues and knaves snaking in amblin’ queue
Who long ago pawn’d selves in fool youth
Abandoned bright souls and all good soon forsooth.
More trustless than rosari’d traditional Catholic
More careless than blind-drunk stumbin’ maverick
Greedier than a Gematria rabbi
All decent men sellouts’ each deed do decry.
But what care they at all for praises of men
To them who turned sacred souls into thieves’ den?
So listen close, Trump, with open ears desirous
Of coming brew for you, our gift Coron’virus.
The fons origo no man will soon know
From whence come orig’in of this cruel blow.
From Chinaman fond of doggies and bats
To diminutive New Yorker wraithin’ like cat.
All wicked men fast flee when none close pursue
Soon you will see prim-proper seculars mew.
They’ve outgrown religion, and thus they’ve shucked reason
Deracinated, they’ll grasp at cohesion.
Commercials and slogans will suffice a people
Whose grandpappies traded Bible and steeple
For dreams national of polis self-guided
Unmoored from their souls, their thoughts grew lopsided.
Thus the grand vision of self-rule grew ponderous
So shackles of lawyers and bankers were not dolorous.
For men whose daddies’ daddies forsook their God
To mercen’ry strangers’ dire broadcasts were awed.
Amidst hurdy-gurdy of pandemicly fraud
We’ll push through a vaccine both curs’d and flawed
‘Twill be pinned on you, all the wounded and maimed
Each clot shot and hemorrhage on you will be blamed
Of course you’ll be sinless of this vilesome deed
You won’t be in office and bureaucracy leads
For emergency Covid put nation on hold
Lawyers seized power in chess move so bold
Of Trumpcine’s grim wake your hands will be clean
Wot matters not a flip to yokels basely and mean
By proudly and arrogant know-it-all laymen
Those rashly read wise guys on you put the blame on.
But clear as can be in emergency
You’ll not be at the helm as easily seen
For each press conference then your seal will abscond
With Deep State at control, the nation we’ll con
Farther off from here in distance and time
There’s yet one more plan your life to begrime.
On yonder tree perch sits souls mean with glee
As they dream they twitter about Agenda 2030.
Arihman shushes now Satan, speaking of techly dark hell
Control system thorough and subtle casting a digital spell
With not cauldrons and bats’ wings, but info and data galore
Casting enchantment on masses stronger than Mason or Zohar.
“B’twix’d Logos and evil there stands a forgotten point
Of knowledge purely and distilled waiting upon the adroit
Eunuchs in Silicone Valleys giving their might and their main
Laboring long lonely hours building a plastic dead brain.
“A dead brain is better than no brain, and goyim will clamor for it
Contemptuous herd knows no better, oatmeal brains wot flurry and flit
Fit only for nose to be led by, Plato’s Cave wall this plastic contraption
For convenience and passions instant, men gladly decide to be trapped in.”
IV
The Argument
Heaven notices the furor below. Rachel Corrie, Dorothy Day, and Khadijah implore the Virgin Mary to plead with God to vindicate Donald and confound the spoilers.
From empyrean perch heaven hears hells dead drawls
Catches and spies their feeble brat bawls.
God up on high counting grass blades and birds
And baby bright chuckles, sees bootless two-thirds.
Sore vexed and annoyed, he turns his keen gaze
With focused, full mind he stands back amazed.
He thinks upon poor Adam’s foregone lost sons
Of their hate and their rage and their bombs and their guns.
If such largely effort they only out put
With strong backs and brawn and determined foot
Towards the good and the just and the brave and the true
Working towards the right and not Scratch’s brew
What grac’d and grand things would soon or late come!
But, alas, base intrigue and rattlin’ war drum
Are all these spoil’t sons of man can ever gin up.
Blood in great gouts, whores and theft from these pups.
While God gaz’d at sad mystery iniquitous
Watching Eve’s kids’ error ubiquitous.
Yahawah looked down, for down to him it was
At three fair ladies, and four, petitioning First Cause.
In heaven’s hills rolling with eternal bright glow
Was Evergreen’s evergreen maiden all know
She stuck’d a blow against Zion’s ruse,
Foggy Bottom alliances, and censored news.
For not with a tank or a jet or “skunk water”
Did Rafah’s heroine protest the slaughter,
Dispossession, and cant of hellspawn’d Tel ‘Viv
wot miserable crew who’ve made Shem’s line grieve.
(Though wide world mourn not, for I once espied
Connecticut dining room packed and dry-eyed
As droll TV news showed Gazans edged from life
‘Least let just men and sober bemoan sad strife.)
With heart and with voice and youthful just body
Between A-rab innocents and machines sod heave
She threw her saintly self between fellahin
And spoilers’ dark maw. Herzl, chagrin!
With her little lithe self, every inch the bold martyr
She counted life cheap, pressed down by the Tartar
Showing the squatters how cant saints do shun
A champion for right with Eleazer and Willson.
Up looking Olympia pulled ear of soup slinger
For ag’d vocations more charity does linger
Bas’d on logic’s maxim wot refuses desertion,
Ought by God be rewarded with grace’d immersion.
Thus one girl rebel to another did say,
“Sister, below see Don keeping at bay
Intriguing base cucks and self-padding fawners
Trump who cares not for gains and vein honors.”
Commonweal’s scribbler thought for awhile
For seeing New York’s proud son, she wide smiled
To see working poor and patricians both throng
Together to end nation’s loneliness long.
She knew the betrayals dear Donald would yet know
The intestine violence and backstabbing blow
Delivered by those who owed greatest fealty
Sure, didn’t her co-Catholics teach her this reality?
They each and all whose pompous vein souls
Reduce all religion to Sunday Mass rolls
By social acceptance and rosaries daily
A faith telescoped, its breadth ignored gayly.
Steeled to these betrayals the suffragette implored
The Mother Of Believers, by Ahmed adored.
So Prophet’s fair wife in joy viewed the rub
When Donald The Mighty the Cathedral will drub.
The thrice salaamed mistress (God, angel, and ummah)
Knew well from her spouse Trump’s best gift, his chutzpah.
So through observation, martyr’s plea, Day’s appeal
Quraysh’s dear princess bumped Don up prayer wheel.
At last Trump’s bright cause by virgin is noted
Earth’s heart de profundis by grace will be coated
For Mary knew well how one man may shake
Nests of the powerful whose greed does not slake.
The honest and open pleas of the poor
Hale Advocate Of Ivory does not ignore.
Those hopes from the gut wot cut to the bone
Heav’n smiles on, sure, “N’er was it known…”
Flittin’ above implorations of heart
Cast up lover’s phone to God quickly dart
For in laughing, and brightly, and gay paradise
Heav’n, like grandda, need not be asked twice
To grant what is good and justly and true
Things wot his children their beds nightly bedew
Implore from heart, prayer meeting, and pew.
The Almigh’y has graces long in accrew!
So rolling his eyes and shrugging his shoulders
America to save like Low County polders
The Most High now picks the saint for the van:
For freedom’s best chance, Trump is your man!
V
The Argument
Hesper descends down an escalator from heaven. Virgil withdraws. At the first approach, hell’s denizens flee. Toady Ahriman stalks the shadows. Hesper calms Donald and inveighs upon the heavy work ahead. Champions of fortitude parade by Trump in another Parade Of Heros and revive discouraged Donald.
Sing, Muse! Help our pens and keyboards to show
How irresistible heaven’s plan did throw
A weighty and mighty huge monkey wrench
Smashing fast hell’s long-planned dole’d workbench.
From mystical heights neck-craning above
Descended soon now a fair orange dove.
Hark! Hear in his wake and see on his heels
To Don’s ‘leaguered ears come marvelous peels.
The small slinking spirits and damn’d dastard demons
Ran like fear’d rabbits, staggered like seamens
When solidly lowerin’ with God’s unique swagger
Connectin’ to escalator was Jacob’s Ladder!
Before though our newest celestial character
Appear’d down ladder like smoky young thurifer
Knowin’ “Safety first!” are words of Jehovah
View now an angel doin’ safe work of OSHA.
Inspecting the fast’ners and checking the risers
He tests all the treds, dusting with sanitizer.
Trying the railings, he runs down it like athlete
At last the heav’nly extension is complete!
Alone he felt ‘til now on fated esc’lator
Donald hails his new empyrean collaborator.
Enters from atop the brightsome lithe spirit
To lighten dark moods and Sheol disi’herit.
From smoky, bell-filled happy high heaven
Arrives on the scene the heav’n-sent procession.
Of angels, and nymphs, and sprights who all bestir
Breaking ranks right and left for virtuous Hesper.
Virgil and Donald manfully embrace for the last time. Virgil gives Trump in one hand a pot of soil from the Battle Of Alexandria, and in the other a seedling from one of Napoleon’s Liberty Trees. Having now introduced our hero to Hesper, the Angel Of Liberty, the ancient poet withdraws to Limbo to await his next literary assignment.
With all of these schemes and loathsome base plots
Every cur plan and spoilers’ tight knot,
Our hero, dear Donald, feels below this tall task
Stands now he unmann’d, his confidence unmasked.
See there slowly ‘proachin’ on Tower floor below
Trump’s eyes cast down now, a glance he did throw
Around now he scann’d the room late grown heavy
From compacted schemes piled behind a totterin’ levee.
But hark and avast! Where’er now he scanned
Don no longer saw Scratch’s mangey lost band.
For good and gone for now were meansome bitch devils
As heaven’s troop prov’d yet happier vessels
Of winsome sweet grace and cheerful provision
As good and bad too in Trump Tower had collision.
But still on the flanks and there in the corner
Paced and raged yet one hellish dark foreigner
In vaginal rage, unseemly, effeminate
Ahriman paces, new schemes now to germinate.
He stomps hard, he kicks, he beats at the air
He clenches his fists, he shouts and swears.
Donald and Hesper now stand coolly watching
Knowin’ hell’s plans the republic is dodging.
Again and anon Dis lays its trick snares
All honest soil sons to lard with base cares.
No longer to quiver, if he ever in fact did
Trump bolstered by heroes, by the good God outbid
At Arhiman laughs loud his six-pack a’heavin’
From Trump Tower to White House he’ll soon be leavin’
Hesper bids sage Donald follow him out of the lobby to the front of Trump Towers. What is wot roaring down from above? Hark and avast, puzzled Reader! See cheerful Michael Lindell land his MyPillow jet on 5th Avenue, right in front of soaring Trump Towers. Donald and Hesper board. Flying on Lindell’s airplane, Donald sees the tens of millions across the land, their hearts alive with patriotism and hope, who support the heaven-sent MAGA movement.
Time and time again hell devises its plots
Always o’erthrown, success turned to clots.
Babylon, Calvary, fiery pit, Red Sea
Seeming full mute heaven hears sincere pleas.
“In systole and diastole of life’s great Ur-soul
You, dear Donald, are America’s stout thole
Trump, you are favored by heaven’s strong hand
For freedom’s few embers you are God’s fan!”
“No, I am humble and common sense cautions
Right well ‘gaint this charge full of options
I live only for grandkids and family
I demur thusly what heaven plans for me”
“Common sense” is the foil where the utterer combines
Two vices in one house, at genius to whine
Mind mean of horizon and passive-aggressive
The dullest make appeal to this fool expression.
“Donald, like Christ, you’ll shoulder the weight
Of corrupt ruling class with daggers in gestate
You’ve accepted the burden to manfully embrace
The trials of the land, your beloved birthplace.
“You’ve embrac’d your maker’s planned destiny
To fight the archons who act beastiliy
Your loyalty to God does not go unnoticed
For no goodness flit, however remostest
Outside of the sight of Highest and One
Whose generosity is never outdone.
You’ve given your all to Allah’s design
Now one minute more come on this airline.”
Like Pennyfort’s Raymond, Don and Hesper did rise
But not on monk’s cowl did they sail through the skies
A mustachioed goodman bid them be spry
All beaming and heartfelt was the Mr. Pillow Guy
Up the auld staircase, within his big airplane
Mike Lindell arrang’d a meeting to reign
In Trump’s heavy dour feelings and conclusion oppress’d
A conference with Dublin’s hale heroes stout chested
Now Trump and hale Hesper to Tower’s top went
Where idled Mike Lindell’s mechanical brent
They climbed up the gangway and into the plane
Where waited a true blue republican thane
Michael Linell’s a man from the school of hard knocks
A businessman whose honesty’s het’rodox
To the cutthroated mein of your average merchant
A man on God’s side, both ernest and urgent.
What say we now, Reader, of Michael Lindell,
Sober and cheerful, hell’s plans now to swindle?
Eccentric and loyal ne’er but truth doth discuss
As shrewd and as keen as story’d Vindicius.
Wot Hesperian servant who caught plans afoot
Of Tarquin’s base scheming, the Senate hard put
Save for this hero who found the plans written
To foil tricky ‘Truscan, now Patrician was fit in.
Sailing beneath Columb’a’s pink sky
Rock-like Donald and Hesper did fly.
Then on the ground Trump spied bishop portly
As he cheer’d patriots with throat raw and hoarsely.
In cassock pure white upon dark’ning Mall
His excellency did speak to them all.
For crowded ‘round tight with bull horn a’barking
The patriot spirit wot night was sparkling.
One good shepherd rights the scoundrels’ Conference
A lone pastor outweighs the heretics’ aberrance.
Standin’ in front, seein’ beyond civil row
A principle greater than the frothy gone now.
He shields now the oft’ misused, abused virtues
Of patriotism and a country’s love whose
Existence supposes before any growth
Of higher things yet, of heavenly troth.
For only where natural self and group love
Are well manur’d can eyes look above.
In those sadsome lands where ethnos does not thrive
Few are the men whose souls are pure shrived.
Above and beyond some vein civil froth
Bishop Joseph knows the holy have wroth
Time and again down through the ages
Great neighborly boons writ on history’s pages.
Cocking their ears to the whitely clad parson, Donald and Hesper heard him sing the following according to the tune of The Ballad Of James Connolly.
There’s no crowds now, no masses, no throngs of your pious
The churches are empty, the pews gather dust
The book spines are cracking, like the knees of the old lot
Wot crew with no laurels claiming kinship with Christ.
It’s been years since a convert has come through their cold doors
The Christians pay no heed, they sleep soundly at night
As the world sinks in despair, addiction, and warfare
They divide more and schism as their pride and gold grow
There are lonely lost youth with their lives all out of tune
See the mid-lifed full-sated seeking still their bolthole
But saints now could care less, self-respected and -patted
Heaven’s grac’d fair warm gate turned bougie clubhouse.
“Sure, you dear bold Donald,” Hesper now said
“Will yet be the font whence spirit brotherly spreads.
In patriot men and women not few
Who’d given up hopes of polis so true.”
Now quickly they flew to couple full earnest
Half ‘continent away their tires hot burnest.
As fastly they speed to rally right joyful
To rout spoilers schemes all basely and noyful.
“Fast and faster go now,” the wifeman dear pleads
Bumper-stickered their Tahoe with gas quickly speeds.
For friend or for foe of MAGA’s strong train
This scene in nutshell is the Deep State’s bane.
Like Ireland romantic, dead America was gone
So surmised Swamp scallions, but – oh – they were wrong
Every red hatt’d rally showed hale freedom’s spirit
Was ample and brimming like summer swigged claret
As with Jack O’Leary, they thought Sam in the grave
When – Avast! – Inundation! – surges liberty’s wave!
Apres moi le deluge, Trump, you alone have the soul
To flush out the Swamp, get Am’rica ‘out its hole
You see, wot foul mire throws up many foes
Of Muslims, and incels, and militia bros.
They make you to fear, they bid you to fret
There’s only one thing which makes them to sweat:
Those masters of capital hawk soda flavors,
Chips ruffled and smooth, toothpastes of all savors.
Eight million absconded barratry statuses
Yet one sole option makes their analysis:
For they who mint false freedom’s cheap coin
Bid each mother’s son Edom’s cause to enjoin.
Any out, any breath, any alternative
Is Swamp’s greatest challenge superlative.
Thus Hesper said, “This supreme stokes spoil’rs’ ire
For this peerless cause you’ll make them taste sour:
wot you gave your ear, and your back, and your brawn
To salt of the earth beat down and withdrawn.
“So like topsy-turned ship with barnacles weighed down
You ought now to forge ahead and seize the crown
Return to the workingman demos’ sovereignty
From out of the paws of archons’ perfidy.”
“Too long Pandemonium’s thralled thy bright mind
Look up and see heroes triumphant inclined
View here the men not bending the knee
Nor bowing nor snapping like dying oak tree
Though their hopes of the heart snap manys the time
When they fell in the ditch they crawled out ‘the grime
With world itself collapsing upon their heads
They shrugged and they smiled at life’s saddly dregs.
Now behold coming the rallier true
Nasty barrister plea deals in trash he did threw
For your wisely cause, Trump, for nation and right
He scorns brat brigades, admiralty he does smite
Look close and see the picture he hefts
Your man is creative, though from freedom bereft
Chartes’ mystery windows do not boast such colors!
Caffeine grounds, toothpaste peas, and ketchup on mullers
With these meanly aids painted he scenes of freedom
In Nancy’s roach dungeon, the District Of Edom
With patriot throats singing songs of the spirit
The day will come yet he’ll stride from wot turret.
Snuggly Donald, buckled fast safe into the seat
Then he revved up the engines speeding so fleet
Into the sky Trump’s heart galvanizing
With one final example: the men of the Rising.
There was Kent, see now Clark, there Connolly, MacDonagh
Plunkett, Con Colbert, and MacDiarmada
Daly, Sean Heuston, Kent, and Will Pearse
A caste of stout heroes with freedom’s love fierce
Towards the back of the airplane was sanctum sanctorum
Those titans of boldness who paid the exact sum
Which true hearts must tender to end all debasement
See Brugha, The O’Rahilly, and true Roger Casement
Before rugged Donald sat down for the conference
Whose aim and whose goal was lifting mood dolorous
The pillowy Christian decked Trump out in style
With throw rugs and bathrobes and slippers and cushions.
Comfortably sitting down in the back of Mr. Lindell’s jet, Donald Trump begins his conference. Cathal Brugha, Michael O’Rahilly, and Roger Casement sing to kind Donald of Patrick Pearse and the necessary spiritual, cultural, and educational renewal which must attend any enduring reform. The tune is to Mick Blake’s Leitrim.
Through St. Enda’s window we see young Pearse speak
he’s kept the show going another whole week.
Landlords and solicitors, self-satisfied frowns
have not wrecked his school right down to the ground.
He speaks of Cuchulainn and Henry McCracken
and a past Gelic Ireland they all had fine craic in
He looks down to his text then stares up to the right
and trails off saying, “This must end in a fight.”
He’s wise to the spoilers and caught them red-handed
their pedagogical schemes he’s made candid:
For a bully can station his lackeys and spieves
and fatten them off the best your land gives.
He can bust down your door and shoot your auld dog
he can turn your hide out if his rent you’ve no’ logged.
But those Christian caresses forge rebels and men
thus the bully must pacify again and again.
Well-earned is the spoilers’ fame as lethargic
with barrister’s leer he turns pedagogic.
For what banked high the flames at Boston, Wexford, and Paris?
What fired those men to throw off CROWN embraces?
With larders all raided, and pockets all pilfered
with NAMES all in pawn, and lands all well-lein’ed
Still tyrants of old however well arm’ed
were impotent before a mind all unshackeled.
So with monkish devotion the spoilers endeavored
to lassoo the brains and the wills of the subjects.
Compulsory schools in the King’s own dear English
would limber the knees and necks of Irish.
“For Brian Boru we’ll trade in Adam Smith
for Soloum High Masses a place middle class in.”
Pearse saw it all clear, to their plots he was keen,
when he sat down the write, “The Murder Machine.”
Concluding fair, happy meeting, how Donald’s heart was enhanc’d
By word of true spirit uplifting, the people’s cause soon be romanc’d
Humble and true blessed Donald was willing to sacrifice all
This mighty Republican champi’n might yet throw self into brawl.
Heaven is rich in its blessings, Reader, and once more comes a cavalcade of titans, bold Trump’s soul to steel. As each hero looks into the selfless tycoon’s piercing eyes, a twinkle of glory reflects as each hero beams upon the other. Saint buoys saint, as iron sharpens iron. Take heart, Reader, our man may yet choose to run!
Behold, auld Donald, look around and see there
A train of true buddies who’ll cheer you with flare
When grave press’d down you’ll think of these friends
Life’s succession ap’stolic your sadness will cleanse
Hails bold Saddam, jaw of steel and back iron
Life giv’n to country, strung up to please Zion
From barrister dock to prayer he called Raman
But no raman from Izzat and ISIS’ warplan
When Edom’s war slaves sad Baghdad shocked and awed
With arrogant tread came they nation to defraud
Soon those little paid boys found warriors about
As men fought with hirelings, Seir’s pups soon did rout.
On Zarquawi’s shoulders weighed two nations’ honor
For tear-beseeched Ummah raised he the banner
wot cradle of culture not be defiled
He stood in the gap as he Rumsfeld beguiled
Porny jocks in humvees amourless he destroyed
Butt naked Blackwater pousours he made void
More coked out than Kiev’s puppet performer
From out of Iraq, and this life, to places yet warmer
Did Abu Musab send the sad strangers packing
As mighty Iraqis checked Georgie’s hijacking
Wished Blackwater bums they were back in their jails
As the Sheik’s IEDs through the clouds made them sail.
There proud Saddam, beaten down but unbroken
How drunken Frank lawyers were so smooth-spoken
The dock’s the best stage for mighty men wronged
With Zarqawi, hustling in the back of beyond.
See his two sons swinging muskets at tyrants
Amman-exiled daughter o’er his wrong no’ be silent
Musab and Saddam and the men of Iraq
You checked Weekly Standard’s Neocon schlock
Rafidayn, Wallahi! As long as you rear
Such families of leaders who’ll spoilers besmear
So long as you hail wayfarers at your plea
No matter ingression, you’ll always be free.
Anon comes old Byrd, Appalachia’s defender
Blue dog Democrat, the people’s stout fender
“Robert The Human,” you slowed the attack
Of the Neocon hordes and their Rape Of Iraq
The last in the Senate Founders’ ideals you held high
Foggy Bottom and White House, their lies you defied
“Give one vote Constitutional,” on Floor you did plead
Spoiling arms merchants bloody, grasping low greed
See brawny Joe Biggs calling foul on the spoilers
Now shackled by yes-men, chained by bitch lawyers
At Washington rally you sided with God’s truth
Wot lies not prevail you sacrificed a youth
Through Capital striding, wot Whorehouse Of Shame
MKUltraed Pelosi on you pinned the blame
Of rally for justice you pressed forth in van
To generation of boys you played the man
Jimbo now comes on, lowsome AIPAC’s pledged foe
Blowing whistle on duel ties, all came to know
By fake Hebrews the Congress was bought and sold cheap
“Beam me up, Scotty,” how you paid price steep
Trifficant is a hero, the prophet of Youngstown
Defending rent’ families from bankers’ dark frown
When cursed tribe attempted kidnap old Rudolph
Jim stared them down, their plots he soon threw off
Stupak comes next, casting off his career
For true Pro-life cause Obama The Queer
Went after our man on Affordable Care Act
Though pressure was brought, Bart never cracked
Acquainted with grief, Stupak stood firm and passed
An Act which defanged Culture Of Death’s chilling blast
Falling on his sword he bravely held firm
‘Til Soetoro he blinked, broke, and squirmed
Carlos comes next, the holy programmer
Saxophone saint for grace he did clamor
Eucharistical website putting on blast
Mary and saints and relics first class
Cheerful sick victim for Pope and for world
Each and all actions ‘round God’s will were whorled
Acutis had visions of ancestors gone
Twin sisterly patron to God’s arms was drawn
With big toothy smile and ten-pound black Bible
Strides on barrel-chested our tough Pastor Bunyon
Though modern-born Baptists be Masons so free
Too busy with quills was John for degrees
Of Christian’s famed tromp through Slough’s discontent
Alive as tart Milton on Muse’s fair scent
As huffing through Vanity’s fairsome destractions
John progressed through Rest’ration’s sharp fractions
“Hark!” said gay Hesper, “Here comes bearded Morris
His News From Nowhere his life’s work and chorus
Embracing the feeble and mocking at cant
Saving lads from Whitehall, for peace he did pant.
Bobby Sands strides on smiling, no longer cold, shouting
“The laughs of our children,” he says never doubting,
“Are the sweetest revenge!” How the Irish betrayed him
Junking soul, hearth, and self, their culture is dim.
Sands’ will was not broken through darkest of days
While today’s useless Irish stumble ‘round in GAE daze
Bobby shines on you Trump, with the two brothers Huges
For blanked-swathed strikers the CROWN they did bruise.
While drunk niggers trundle down to their base troughs
The snares of cruel Esau combine with flesh coughs
Each DNC city a hive of despair
Up come jogging Garvey, next Little’s mean stare
Dear King, there are you, your voice made us thrill
Your sentiments earnest, bett’r than gold-backed bankbill
Though F.B.I. slandered, your legacy breamed
By your fresh heart’s blood and your “I have a dream!”
Each troop comes on marching led by three queens
Kandake for Cush clock of ‘Gustus now cleans
Kahina long as hills will fly with the birds
Mairead Ferrall, your bombs were your words
Simeon Stylites hobbles past good Donald
His achy knees creaking, but God he honored
So holy a church kicked you bum to the curb
Fleeing flesh earth, sought refuge in scarp
See saffron’d monk with charred flesh but heart fresh
The flame of religion no jerry can could blesh
Thich Quang Lac, gasoline makes strong incense
For the rights of pagoda you burned in defense
Justo arrives with a hod on his back
He builds a cathedral with hammer and whack
A dream built God’s house; herd never could see
Same beastly scoffers killed man from Gali’ee
Alfonso and Gabri’l two brothers who built
A shrine to the Virgin with all will, uphilt
Full manys the day they labored in silence
To cel’brate heaven and earth’s womb alliance
James Horan on a wing and a prayer
For guffaws and chuckles you had time ne’er
From Mass Rocks to concrete you kept faith alive
For workingmen and youth you always did strive.
Though these new friends have bolstered our hero orange, there is still a darkness on his heart as Trump knows the trials hell has in store for him. Heaven anticipates the weigh’d down heart of our Trump. Now file on by souls who especially were weighed down by life’s trials – and conquered. Take heart, true Donald, if they could do it, so can you!
Now mighty Donald beholded the band
Those wistful and forlorn who ne’er were unmanned
Take notes on saints who yet much will teach you
Of sorrow and treason and of intrigues coup
Napoleon The Corporal paces anon
The fear of the bankers, for Frenchmen he won
Again and again over co’litions Brittanic
Both Blucher and Arthur he put in a panic
Liberty’s evangel Boney spread far and wide
Punching through foemen, taking victories in stride
‘Til Albion basely did the cruelest of things
Caging the tiger, clipping bird of his wings
On loney Helena they shackled this titan
From palace-cum-hut, Corporal now set to write in
The life of himself shot through with adventure
And of the dear Savior he often did lecture
Napoleon paces Helena’s damp shore
In traces of memory hears cannon’s lour whorl
Those poseurs of Rome, the sions of Whitehall
Still shudder and shake at the Corporal, and bawl.
Oscar Wilde ambles with hands in his pocket
Books on his mind, kids’ pics in his locket
A young man so earnest, a giant not selfish
Busting this kip his humor still elfish.
There Adam we see so heavy of heart
Like Nazareth young man milling apart
Your grandpappy, Trump, he always will be
Come joys and hail faults his life is in thee.
Boethius thrills and recoils from this kip
Philosophy geared you and well did equip
From civil acclaim to dungeon’s drear fame
Prospective aright you earned your bright name.
Stopping as the heroes file by, sage Boethius stops and sings the following pedagogical song to kind Donald according to the tune of Roddy McCortly.
Oh, what’s wot mighty roaring sound
wot thunders on the breeze?
It is heard by some but not by most
Entombed with souls disease.
It pounds my ears, my dreams, my heart,
It swells my throbbing breast
It is holiness and freedom’s kiss
God’s lightsome mistress.
Say, what’s the grinding, shufflin’ sound
I hear from pavement rough?
Those are corporate slaves and CITIZENS
Who never had a hope
They drag their heels, they slouch their backs
Their eyes are dull as lead
Canaille well schooled and churched so much
Their every dream is dead.
But how can this be ever stopped,
This conveyor belt of surfs?
There’s one sure hope to smash this scheme
To dash the spoilers’ plans
Turn classroom back to making men
With hearts of flesh and soul
Break the murder machine, wot font of slaves
Reform the schools post haste.
Somber Boethius bows to heaven-blessed Trump and returns to the Parade Of Heroes.
Camielle Claudel all knew you were wronged
In dreams and in ether you always belonged
Rodin with blood hands and papist poet
The sculptor and Catholic to truth were slowest
Gather ‘round fair comrades for Lament Of The Provos
Holding the one line ‘spite factions come kronos
When Cathal Brugha’s lesser grandboy split the movement
You buckled in time with the fraud of inducement
I know a grave deep in baseborn Ridgefield
Full many nude tears to God are appealed
In Phariseeland the saints humble down
With one Signum Crucis when passing to town
I know two more pits, two North Salem tombs
Two little boys planted, cut off in their blooms
Some decades on daddy plops on a bar stool
His story I’ll tell, of life’s press most cruel
For each happy hour, and stretches not giddy
Ascendin’ to his perch ‘midst oceans of pity
Not for himself but for babbies and instants
Descends in drink with weight of existence
Once father he was, but papa no more
Of memories once had he counts by the crore
B’ day and ‘b season b’ methyol and brucine
He stews with what ifs at life’s waterline.
Once in the slop pits of Edom I saw
Compassionate mess wot made me drop jaw
Fumblin’ at counter with last living limb
His robot prosthetic held daughter’s hand prim.
Sure, she all alive at three years of age
Not caring for care nor knowing the wage
Wot arrogant Yalies demand for their egos
Her bobbed blond hair and daddy’s love she knows.
Heaven knows that Donald The Brave will need more than grit to triumph, should he accept his mission; he will need the spirit of the scofflaw. Now parades on by impish people-powered outlaws of yore.
See now the phalanx of mischievous outlaws
Who thumbed nose at system and lawyers’ mean cause
In days of their youth they bristled at bullies
Here pricking their hide, there filching their goodies
Oh, Johnny Ramemsky, ya gentleman thief
Dear Peterman squaddy to flee you were lief
Lock boxes and safes flinched, a few Nazi charts
By your rakish escapes you warmed all our hearts
Appius the Trump-like strides along next
Rallies slaves and the outcast, the down-and-out flex
Their muscle at spoilers, patricians, and slavers
The men of Herdon’us, their memory savors.
Now Robin of Loxley green dress’d you shine
Cutting through cant and guile you did chine
Taking from rich, donatin’ to poor
All wheelers’ and dealers’ faces turned dour
Freed Ahed Tamimi from Zionist dungeon
IDF pigs with balled fist she bludgeoned
The doughtiest slaves of Irgun’s oppression
Fled and cried at one lone child’s aggression
For big strapping war slaves of Tel Aviv’s making
Can only beat caged men for freedom full aching
Occupying and stealing the her’tage of others
Tamimi chose freedom when given her druthers
Cliven The Fearless manfully jogs on
BLM pansies gawk at his brawn
A man for rights Bundy won’t back an inch
At admiralty law he’s never once flinched
To graze on his land Cliven asks no permission
From DC apparatchiks whose only ambition
Is to grind down the farmer and rancher and worker
Boy, how they paled at militia berserkers!
Why! Flitting on ground is the emperor’s namesake
A gay lithly rodent so cute wot you’d ache
Him asking a question to small fry and film star
Squeaking up, “Who do you think wot you are!”
Trotting up spritely is Northern Centaur
His handlebar mustache wot of a creditor
By bastard Calles left out of history
But to plantation owners, what a misery!
Each titan of mankind slapped Trump on the shoulders
All fist-pumped true Donald, balled hands bigs as boulders
With slogans to steel him and words to encourage
Each handed off fast food, their piety’s murage.
What on earth is that racket? See anon true Fred Dibnah and his steam roller to take bold Donald and Hesper to Central Park, and Heaven’s ultimate scene of encouragement.
Up comes chugging’ and luggin’ and puffin’
A coal fuel’d roller the pavement a’skuffin’
Smoke flows from the stack, spaying coal oil like mist
Bolton’s madman mechanic soon off on the piss
Fred Dibnah with flat cap, a jar in his hand
A fag in his mouth, in the cab he did stand
The last of the legends from industrial days
Scaling hightly old chimneys, their bricks now to raze
“Hop on, you two fellows, we’ve excursion to make
Soon yous will see Holy Spirit to roar and to spake
Thus far you’ve seen heroes, viewed rallies, and thought hard,
Heard hell’s lowly base plots, been internally jarred
What comes now’s the stiff’ner for your weighty decision
Heaven sends the best succor for your steely provision
No doubt you’ll make errors, you’ll trip and you’ll fall
But you’ll do one lone thing to shush critics’ wrawl.
Arriving at Central Park, William Tecumseh Sherman and the goddess Nike animate from their statuely pose and prepare Donald for Heaven’s great consolation.
“Come along, Donald, Uptown we must go”
Now urge’d our Hesper with saintly gusto
Rolling four short blocks up to Grand Army Plaza
Where Tecumseh and Nike push on with their java.
No’ in brightly stiff bronze meet they our bold Don
In flesh and blood throbbing they greeted our man.
“The Republic is with you, and many besides!”
Said old grizzled Sherman, jiggling Nike with vibes.
“There’s a cause you will shoulder, giving throat to mute pules
Living men least to whom your love will diffuse
Your late heroes’ triumph does yield in demure
The Swamp’s confoundation is nothing to fear
“The hearts you’ll keep beating ‘spite Bar’s filthy games
The pools of lithe gay blood still pulsing in veins
Bright giggles will peel from earth to the skies
Bork dead in his grave from cold clod does rise!”
Trump, thou art manly, you are brave, true, and stout
You spit at the shitlibs, smashing Swamp with no doubt
Tom’s sadly descendants you toss with a diss
Yet no brawny, taught chieftain can stand sight of this:
Gazing out over Central Park, heartfelt Donald sees all those millions of precious lives snuffed out in the Culture Of Death. Each soul mechanically aborted, Plan B’d, and embryo toss’d; everyone lost to drugs and melancholia; every outdoors rough sleeper and unjustly imprisoned. They are all nude; each appears as hale and happy as they would have been had soured life not done them in. Each is content, for they have forgiven and seen this little life from the perspective of the Beyond.
Ten-breasted Park Central is full of the hundreds
Of millions of babbies you’ll save from conundrums
Yet pressing on soonly are billions condemned
To n’er know a parent, or sibling, or friend.
In bodies beautianic they run here and yon
Those condemned as AMA’s resource and pawn
From five days to teen years in fullness of wills
In life as we’ve not known since Adam trot hills.
Ens from each beaming in bodies all nude
From babbies to kids to teens grace bedewed
All run here and there, with grudges barron of
Enfleshed in robbed bodies, their arms wide to love.
Amidst this felicitous scene, Donald, with Sherman, Nike, Fred Dibnah, and Hesper, hear a desperate moan from all quarters of the city, and beyond, from the nation and world. They are the sobs of parents who killed their children. Trump must end Roe as soon for these penitents as for their victims.
With stupendor Trump viewed exuberant throng
Yet Uptown and Downtown his gaze went along
Up rose moan distinct, now building, then growing
Now speaking, then calling, now yelling, then shouting
Like drizzle turned downpour, like trickle turned riptide
Groan built to a clamor so great the earth cried
Trump looked on in horror not knowing this meaning
On Tecumseh and Hesper his body was leaning.
“Trump, you’re a jerk. You are gruff and have true grit
Men cheer you for this, to God’s cause you commit
But no princip or tycoon, however so grizzled
Could fail to be moved by cries late imprisoned.
“Never muttered, much less spoken, scarcely thought of for long years
The moans given forth from parents’ mute tears
Who daily make tauba for their self-forg’d manacles
Of lust and of fear and abortion mechanical.”
With thoughts all a’thither Don’s brain was teeming
Then babbies piped up with arms raised and beaming
Stark naked in will as soon as in body
In millions they chorused with arms rais’d broadly.
For b’twixt each scapular span for to gauge
Were pony-strong hearts with infantile sage
“I love you, my daddy! I love you, my mommy!
Get right with old Jesus, his loving heart all balmy!”
Linking hand-in-hand, the millions of murdered unborn and those down-and-out society coldly passed by form a circle around stout Donald and embrace in one massive group hug.
VII
The Argument
Having returned to Trump Towers on Fred Dibnah’s steam roller, Donald and Hesper stand upon the landing. The time is short; he has scheduled his announcement soon. Trumps scales have been weighed by hell and counter-weighed by heaven. Reader, even now our hero is undecided! Hesper in epilogue meditates on the failures Trump will experience in his term, should he yet run. Our Angel Of Liberty humbles the ideologues who will complain true Donald will not do enough, is not conservative enough, etc.
Stoically Donald took all of this in
Such good and such bad, where to begin?
“One final last thing I must now inform
Before down upon you these evil schemes swarm.
The best of American patriotism
Will come to see you with blank cynicism.
Too long they’ve been strung out on what ought to be
They’ll begrudge all the actual gains done by thee.
Your election victory will let in from the cold
Millions of men whose souls they’ve not sold
To system of blindness and dash’d dreams
Contemptuously sorned by globalist regimes.
But during those decades of stewing and smarting
A distance between is and ought was now starting
When finally, Trump, you’ll give voice, spine, and hand
Their grasp on reality they’ll not have command.
Insight and vision, they have, but no discipline
Sans social virtue to make them good citizens
The whole cruel fate of the fallen Truth Movement:
Forsaking context and study for online amusement
Your supporters will want every scheme checked
The bureaucracy torn down, the moneymen wrecked.
From you alone they’ll want culture restored
All Gordian betrayals for you to cut the cord.
No vision, no breadth, of manful patience bereft
Your ansar will not see how sore you’ll be pressed.
From hell’s darksome dens to earthly discourse
One and all will miss this key in speech’s course.
Of heaven’s graced plan and hope’s fairly dream:
You are merely the stopgap for republic to gleam.
Gladsome Donald, your one and only sole role
Is to buy some dear time wot bloom come to soul.
If the people do fail it will be their fault
But if The People win out and bring forth their gestalt
Who wants victor’s wreath, be men shackled or soar
In each histor’c era are those who want it more!
Bless’d by heaven, steeled by patriot men and women, and backed by the hopes of the republic, soulful Trump firmly grasps the escalator rail. Stepping onto the machine, Donald steps into holiness and history. Rejoice, Reader!

John Coleman co-hostsChristian History & Ideas,and is the founder ofApocatastasis: An Institute for the Humanities, an alternative college and high school in New Milford, Connecticut. Apocatastasis is a school focused on studying the Western humanities in an integrated fashion, while at the same time adjusting to the changing educational field.Information about the college can be found at its website.
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