 |
| Bannon head caricature by |
In the distant future, a decade from now,
when our planet has ceased to be,
those intergalactic aliens
shall recite my song with glee.
So gather round, ye representative few
who make up the Electoral College,
And I’ll tell ye a tale of doughty deeds
That’ll fill your brain with knowledge.
O I sing of a lad who fought the good fight,
or would, had he shown up to fight it,
but word of a protest made him think twice,
so he said, well they can just bite it.
A true son of Eire, a man of the Cross,
in his blood run the waters of Shannon:
nor better a bloke e’er ran Breitbart News
than wild-eyed, race-baiting Bannon.
A son of the South who gave fatwa ‘gainst Islam
and savaged the global elite;
when he found out that Jews went to school with his kids
he cut out two holes in his sheet.
A Birther by birth, he was early to ken
the charms of our Dear tweetin’ Leader.
So he rolled up his sleeves, and pulled down his pants,
said here’s all that you’ll need to beat her!
The shit that he peddled the Donald sold wholesale
and they shared an establishment beef:
Though he’d worked for a decade at Goldman Sachs
he’d make T***p Pussy Grabber in Chief.
A cock-of-the-walk who never looked back
at the three divorces behind him,
that dark day in Cambridge he chickened out,
O Brave, Brave Sir Bannon!
The protesters stood all night in the rain
with their signs, petitions and banners
while safely ensconced on the Upper West Side
Was Brave, Brave Sir Bannon!
One day he’ll return, Harvard’s Prodigal Son,
and stick like a fly in the ointment;
on wind of impeachment he’ll take the next plane
for a cushy K-School appointment.
Arnold Snarb is a poet and scholar who holds degrees from Harvard, Oxford and Yale. He is currently working on a memoir written in blank verse that recounts his youth and education.
No comments:
Post a Comment