With apologies to Edgar Allen Poe . . .
Politics, corrupt and dreary, left me discouraged and weary,
Pondering a faltering nation none seemed willing to restore.
While I mused upon our Founding, suddenly there came a pounding,
Frantic, echoing, resounding—sounding at my chamber door.
“ ’Tis some idiot,” I muttered, “pounding at my chamber door—
‘Still, he’s too loud to ignore.”
Ah, distinctly I remember on that Tuesday last November;
Lo! A flakey Senate member stumbled in upon my floor.
How I scowled! I didn’t want him;—the swamp-stench was strong upon him
And I blamed the wretch (doggone him!)—that our prospects seemed so poor,
For between elections, all my protestations he’d ignore—
Support him? Whatever for?
Republican? Democratic? Who could tell? His votes, erratic,
And gestures melodramatic, made his allegiance unsure;
To me, it didn’t matter, for the chatterers will chatter
And their favors shrewdly scatter, more and more and more and more
To buy votes from the constituents whom deep-down they deplore—
I expected nothing more.
Yet he, on that eve so gloomy, didn’t even pander to me—
And I must admit, this threw me—for I’d thought I’d known the score.
What the…? Well! The old swamp dweller had dashed into my brick cellar.
‘Fore I knew it, seemed that feller, he was bricking up the door—
Constructing an echo chamber, though I couldn’t tell what for—
In a “bubble,” evermore.
“Poor man! Sip amontillado, ‘til thy troubles are forgot…oh
…never mind,” Alas! His mind, it seemed, had rotted to the core.
From within I heard a thumping, lots of “damn that Donald Trump!”-ing,
And a tired old stump speech, stumping to fool voters as before—
Old clichés and trite catch-phrases, to harangue or to implore…
Which would fool us, nevermore.
Still his raving, shrill, offended, hasn’t ended – hasn’t ended;
And, yes, CNN’s pretended to attend to his uproar.
How they’ve fervently colluded, the displaced; disgraced; deluded!
And each evening they’ve renew’d it, ‘til I fall asleep and snore –
When I wake he’s still protesting, still complaining, still a bore –
Will that matter? Nevermore.