Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The pollster cannot hear the populace;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Clinton is at hand.
The Second Clinton! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of NewsMax and Breitbart
Troubles my sight: somewhere in Sands of Las Vegas
A shape with cheeto body and the head of a man,
A wig rank and hideous, overdone,
Is moving its dull mouth, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant English words.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty decades of faith to keep
Were vexed to nightmare by a fucking moron,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Washington to be inaugurated?
with deep, deep apologies to WB Yeats.