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Sunday Morning, Stanzas One and Two.

Complainancies of the loseur, and late

Burgers and Diet Coke in a baby chair,

And a gold eagle with its wings outspread

Upon a rug mingle to dissipate

The violent rush of avenging hatred.

He dreams a little, and he feels the dark

Encroachment of this new catastrophe,

As a calm darkens among water-lights.

His rooms of opulence and fine bright blings

Seem things in some procession of the dead
Winding across wide water, without sound.
The day is like wide water, without sound,
Stilled for the passing of his dreaming feet
Over the seas, to silent Bedminster,
Dominion of the trap and fairway bunker.


Why should he give his country to the Dems?
What is autocracy if it can fail
After they hold free and fair elections?
Shall he not find in motions of the court,
In pungent tweets and chicken wings, or else
In any balm or beauty of the earth,
Things to be cherished like the thought of winning?
Malignity must live within himself:
Passions of rage, or moods in falling polls;
Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued
Vexations when the Bidens come; nasty
Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights;
No pleasures and all pains, remembering
The past of glory and the present doom.
These are the measures destined for his soul.

Margaret Soltan, November 29, 2020 12:00PM
Posted in: Genius of the Carpathians, poem

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2 Responses to “Sunday Morning, Stanzas One and Two.”

  1. Gordon Young Says:

    And, in the end, he falls downward to darkness, with no wings whatsoever.

    My guess – he fears even the statuary eagle, which surely is just plated.


    Seeing Wally in any form makes me happy.


  2. UD Says:

    Gordon: I’m working on that last stanza: I think my Trump version can’t be complete without it.

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