Clinton at the Booth
By Ernest Lawrence Thayer and Dakota McKee.
The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Democrats this year,
The court stood four to four, the next appointment was unclear.
So when Trey Gowdy lied at first, and Chaffetz did the same,
A pall-like silence fell upon the pundits in the game.
A straggling few got up to warn of working-class despair. The rest
clung to the hope and change they said was sooner manifest.
They thought, “if only Clinton could but get a whack forsooth-
We’d put up even money now, with Clinton at the booth.”
But Gore preceded Clinton, as did also Kerry, John.
And the former was too boring, while the latter was too wan.
So upon the liberal multitude grim melancholy sat.
For there seemed more than little chance of Clinton going splat.
But Silver crunched some numbers, to the wonderment of all.
And Trump, the much despised, had hands alleged to be small.
So when the spring had ended, and men saw what had occurred,
There was Clinton safe in first and…Gary Johnson third????
Then from the social media, and more they hashtagged every yell,
It rumbled through the Facebook, on every Mac and Dell.
It pounded on the keyboard and shot down Alt-Right trolls
For Clinton, “Nasty” Clinton, was advancing in the polls.
There was ease in Clinton’s manner as she stepped into her place,
There was pride in Clinton’s bearing, a practiced smile on her face.
And when, responding to the cheers, she lightly spoke the truth,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt she’d do well in the booth.
300 million eyes were on her as she brushed away the dirt,
The media tongues applauded for a pantsuit, not a skirt.
So while the creeping Donald talked of walls with flippant lip,
Defiance flashed in Clinton’s eye; no need to jibe the ship.
And when the toupee-covered Trump came hurtling through the air.
And Clinton stood a-watching him in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the statesman Sanders, his Bern unheeded in debate.
“That ain’t my style,” said Clinton. “America is already great.”
From the RNC convention, there went up a muffled roar,
like the beating back of refugees from a distant Arab shore.
“Benghazi! Lock her up!” shouted someone with a gun.
And it’s likely they’ve have said so, even had not Clinton run.
With a smile of teeth-whitened clarity Clinton’s visage shone,
She stilled the rising tumult, and bade the race go on.
She signaled to the caucus, though progressives wouldn’t deign.
But Clinton still ignored it, and the VP was…Tim Kaine
“Rigged!” cried the maddened Trumpettes, others warned of WikiLeaks.
But no scornful look from Clinton in the race’s final weeks.
Though they saw her face grow stern and cold, they saw her muscles strain,
They knew that Clinton wouldn’t let them down: she had a great ground game!!!
One final curve from Comey, overshadows Pussy Gate.
He blusters with cruel violence, she waits for November 8.
And now the states will hold the vote, the polls open and then close.
And now the airwaves chatter with force: who was it that they chose?
Oh somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,
The Klan is cheering somewhere, and right-wing hearts are light.
And somewhere men are laughing, with pseudo-populist inflection.
But there is no joy in Mudville. Or New York. Or Chicago. Or Los Angeles. Or Miami. Or San Francisco. Or Philadelphia. Or Washington DC. Or Portland. Or Columbus. Or Detroit. Or Milwaukee. Or Atlanta. Or Cleveland. Or Denver. Or Fresno. Or Hartford. Or Albuquerque. Or Chappaqua. Or Toronto. Or London. Or Paris. Or Beijing. Or New Delhi. Or Jerusalem. Or Rio de Janeiro. Or Mexico City. Or the Maldives. Or Seoul. Or Tokyo. Or Moscow. Or Cairo. Or Istanbul. Or Budapest. Or Brussels. Or Reykjavik. Or Madrid. Or Casablanca. Or….
Hilary Clinton has lost the election. 😦