“Doth Roger Ailes avail thee, Donald Trump,
Alone and madly floundering?
Your edge has withered in the race,
And no birds sing.
Yet – Roger Ailes? Art thou that
Haggard and that woe-begone?
This pig’s ignominy is full,
And the damage done.
I see a fox cub on thy brow,
Its orange fades and lies askew;
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.”
***************************
“I face a lady in debate,
Full competent in policy
Her hair is blond, her foot is light,
And she will wipe the floor with me.
I have been lullèd all asleep,
I have been dreaming — woe betide!—
And now I must ascend the stage
By cold Hill’s side.
My campaign staff it spoke to me
With horrid warning gapèd wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
By cold Hill’s side.
Thus desperately I turn to Ailes,
Thus sad and madly floundering,
Though the edge is withered from the race,
And no birds sing.”
August 16th, 2016 at 1:51PM
very good tho Hill strikes me as more of a flatfooted slugger with a proven chin than a dancing thrower of jabs
August 16th, 2016 at 3:30PM
Ah . . . From there on down it’s all (stacked) rabid red foxes.
Nice poem. Actually the birds are singing at last.
August 16th, 2016 at 4:23PM
Greg: LOL.
August 16th, 2016 at 8:07PM
That’s marvelous. Bravo!
August 16th, 2016 at 8:14PM
Thanks, Dr_D.