Donald at the Bat
With Apologies to Ernest Lawrence Thayer
The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Republicans that day:
The score stood 50 to 39, with less than 3 more weeks to play,
And then when McCain lost at the polls, and Romney did the same,
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.
A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to the hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, “If only Trump could but get a whack at that—
We’d put up even money now, with Donald at the bat.”
But Lyin’ Ted preceded Donald, as did also Little Marco,
And the former was Canadian, while the latter was Cubano;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Donald getting to the bat.
But Rubio lost in Florida, to the wonderment of all,
And Cruz, the much despised, never had the balls;
And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,
There was Trump at the convention, even though he was a turd.
Then from 30 million throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It pounded on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Donald, mighty Donald, was advancing to the bat.
There was ease in Donald’s manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Donald’s bearing and a smile lit Donald’s face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his red hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt ‘twas Donald at the bat.
80 million eyes were on him as he smeared his opponent with dirt;
She didn’t have the stamina, and wore a pantsuit instead of a skirt;
Then while the moderator tried to act somewhat hip,
Defiance flashed in Donald’s eye, a sneer curled Donald’s lip.
And now first questions came hurtling through the air,
As poofed up and combed over as Donald’s yellow hair.
Close by the sturdy Donald the questions unheeded sped—
“I won all the online polls," said Donald. “Strike one!” the public said.
From the benches, white with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;
“Lock her up! Lock her up!” shouted his supporters in the hall;
And it’s likely they’d have done it, had Donald hit the ball.
With a smile of great denial great Donald’s visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the next moderator, and once more the questions flew;
But Donald still ignored them and the public said, “Strike two!”
“Voter Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered “Fraud!”
One scornful look from Donald told them he didn’t think the argument was flawed.
They saw his face grow stern and orange, they saw his two lips strain,
And they knew that Donald wouldn’t let a debate be lost again.
The pucker was plain on Donald’s lip, his teeth are clenched in hate,
He sniffled with cruel violence, once more to make America great;
And now the moderator holds a softball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the lies that made Donald’s nose grow.
Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,
But there is no joy in among the deplorables —mighty Donald had struck out.
