Satire: Trump at the Bat

Satire: Trump at the Bat

(With apologies to Ernest Lawrence Thayer)

Robert A. Hall

The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the GOP that day.

The score stood four to two, with but one inning left to play,

And then when Cruz died at first, and Marco did the same,

A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

Conservatives 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 invest in Trump U, with The Donald at the bat.”

But Carson preceded trump, as did Christie for God's sake,

And the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake;

So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,

For there seemed but little chance of Donald getting to the bat.

But Carson let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,

And Christie, much despised, ate the cover off the ball;

And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,

There was Chris safe at second and Ben a-hugging third.

From five thousand Donaldcrats there rose a snarling 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 Trump’s manner as he stepped into his place;

There was hauteur in Trump’s bearing, an orange smile lit Trump’s face.

And when, responding to the cheers, he flipped his famous hair,

No stranger in the crowd could doubt he'd knock it out of there.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;

Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt;

Then on the mound Hillary ground the ball into her hip,

Hubris flashed in Trump’s eye, a sneer curled Trump’s lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,

And Donald stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.

Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped—

“Very unfair," the Donald cried. “Strike one!” the umpire said.

From the benches of the Trumpbots, there went up a muffled roar,

Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;

“Punch the umpire in the mouth!” shouted someone in the stand;

And it’s likely they’d have killed him had not Trump raised his hand.

With a smile of faux charity great Donald’s visage shone;

And amid the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;

He signaled to Benghazi Hill, like her email the spitball flew;

But Donald still ignored it and the umpire called, “Strike two!”

“Rigged!” cried the maddened thousands, and others answered “Fraud!”

But one scornful look from Donald and the Donaldcrats were awed.

They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,

And they knew that Trump wouldn’t let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Donald’s lip, his teeth are clenched in hate,

He pounds as though a protester his bat upon the plate;

And now Hillary holds the ball, and now she lets it go,

Believe me! the air is shattered by the Donald's Yuggge blow.

Oh, somewhere in this world the sun is shining bright,

The wall still waits its building, and somewhere hearts are light;

And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,

But there is no joy in Nutville—mighty Donald has struck out.

(Lest you be confused, I consider Hillary Clinton equally odious, equally corrupt, equally meretricious and equally unfit to be sewer commissioner, never mind President, as Donald Trump. To friends who say that by not supporting Trump I'm handing the election to Clinton, I reply, "Not at all. By not supporting Clinton, I'm handing the election to Trump." Each will be a disaster, though of different type, to the country. It's just that with his out-of-control NPD, Trump is easier and more fun to