I’ve been going through the bottom drawers and over-head cabinets …
… the garage and storage shed, looking for any Trumpy odds and ends I need to use up by November 8. Nothing more worthless than an opinion on a presidential candidate after he’s lost, I tell you. Believe me, I know. Four years ago, I got caught with at least 10,000 unpublished words on Mitt Romney. Had to toss them in the composting bin just so they weren’t a total waste.
Not that the poem I’m presenting today is unpublished. It appeared in the Boise Weekly last Christmas (in a column I titled “A Not-So Xmas Carol.”) during the wild scramble of the Republican primary season. I enjoy writing poetry—or, as I admitted in that column, “doggerel”—but it’s a chore. Flipping all those words over to find rhymes and then squeezing them into a rhythmic pattern, it’s the most work-intensive writing there is. I can spend as much time on a twenty-line poem as a 4000-word feature.
Which is why I’ve decided to re-print this one here in my blog—to get double-duty out of all the hours I slaved away at it. And as I’m pretty sure that most of us will never want to hear the word “Trump” again come November 9, I thought I’d better get it done before that rush to the finish line.
(This opus was originally written in seven four-line stanzas, but something about this blog is turning it into one long stanza and I don’t know how to fix it. My tech support is out on a date or something, so I’m stuck with it as is. I apologize from the bottom of my heart to those who expect their doggerel to come in separate, clearly delineated verses.)
Prithee We Whump the Plumpish Grump
Our times have soured, or so it seems,
From so many jarring bumps;
That shake our faith when turned to memes,
And thrown at us in clumps.
They’d have us feel it’s all gone bad,
Those curs of the G-O-P sump;
They’ve spread the fear of mass jihad,
And fooled the dumb-as-Gump.
It’s by design, you have to see,
Contrived and meant to stump;
We’re now so scared our pants we pee,
Transformed to quiv’ring lumps.
It’s worst from one I’m loath to name
—An especially repellent schlump—
For every reference builds his fame,
Helping him his rivals thump
Worse’n all the rest, this noxious turd,
this boor with hair so frump;
As dev’lish as King Dick the Third,
Albeit without the hump.
We mustn’t let ourselves be led
By such a mouthy chump;
Whose whole appeal depends on dread
Of horrors up which he’ll pump.
You know the man of whom I warn,
That fascistic horse’s rump.
He who was so scabrous born
Donald J. “Asshole” __________!