(Ben Sellers, Headline USA) Just two weeks after the shocking 2020 election, divine inspiration struck me in the form of a satirical epic poem, not unlike the heroic couplets of Restoration-era British influencer Alexander Pope (with obvious nods to a few more contemporary holiday favorites).
Its rhyme scheme borrowed from the likes of Clement Clarke Moore and Dr. Seuss makes it seem, in hindsight, deceptively simple. At the time, however, little was known of what lay ahead, and so there is an uncanny prescience to it. It would be nearly two months before Trump did, in a sense, “rally his elephants” in a charge on Capitol Hill.
Those parallels between Jan. 6 and Nov. 5 make the Guy Fawkes Day undercurrent all the more intriguing, but for the purposes of the poem, the revolution in question is a symbolic one, of course, that will take place democratically via the ballot box rather than riding literal elephants into Washington, D.C.
The poem’s only failing may be that it didn’t go far enough in predicting just how awful—and how egregiously crooked and corrupt—a Biden administration would actually be.
Of course, there are a few things that were immediately off the mark, like the short-lived rumors of Hillary Clinton becoming the United Nations ambassador. Others have fizzled out over time, like the relationship between Trump and his one-time confidante Mark Meadows.
Then there was Twitter, which changed its name to X (although Headline USA has yet to acknowledge it in our own style). Serendipitously, I discovered that the alternative many journalists in my networks were trumpeting, Mastodon, used “toots” to replace “tweets,” which I like even better.
I have taken the liberty of updating some of the weaker parts of the original, as well as adding a brand-new stanza about Trump’s whereabouts prior to his grandiose entrance, which seem particularly apropos to where we are in the current state of political discourse.
Return of the MAGA
’Twas the Fifth of November, and all through the nation,
Journalists tingled in anticipation.
“Another election,” they tooted, self-sure,
Remembering how they had thrown it before.
The stock market teetered, but bullish it closed,
In hopes that Kamala might soon be deposed,
And the nation restored from its four-year-long saga
By a shiny, new sequel: ‘Return of the MAGA.’
The ghost of Joe Biden now haunted the grounds
Of a Chappaqua mansion, no evidence found.
For Ukrainian blackmail had made him repeal
The Clintons’ pro-Kremlin uranium deal.
“We’ve kompromat here—and we’ll send it to Bloomberg—
Of your throuple with Hunter and wee Greta Thunberg.
Though perfectly legal by Washington standards,
You’ll do as we say,” Czar Zelenskyy demanded.
Joe never suspected—till it was too late
To avoid his nefarious, Epstein-like fate—
That political allies might foster a grudge,
Burying Biden ‘neath decades of sludge.
His demise was the one thing poor Joe couldn’t fake.
“C’mon, man,” he pled, as he sank in the lake.
The piranhas, like proles in a Squad-run breadline,
Were fierce as Hamas and Antifa combined.
Meanwhile, Kamala had scuttled the rescue
And clung to her throne like Nicolae Ceaușescu.
She cackled aloud in a Karen-ish twang,
“I’ll own the whole world, even take back Pyongyang.”
But something remained that would stand in her way:
A crimson ball-cap on a blaze-orange toupée.
As sunbeams awoke from the darkest of winters,
They lumined the figure in glimmering splinters,
And shadows, like curtains, drew back on the sight
Of a familiar face in the dawn’s early light.
“This race will be yuuuger than Rosie’s fat shanks,”
Said President Trump as he surveyed the ranks.
Fresh from the gulag he’d newly been sprung
After kangaroo courts condemned him to be hung,
Boiled in oil, disemboweled, drawn and quartered
For ignoring an Obama judge’s gag order.
Most cheered the great statesman, but a look of resign
Crossed the countenance of those who’d been holding the line—
Then, like Hannibal Smith, he lit up a cigar,
And rallied his elephants near and afar:
“Come Tucker, come Vivek, come Cotton and Cruz;
Come Johnson and Jordan; there’s no time to lose.
The Deplorables’ spirit has yet to abate;
So the rest of those RINOs will just have to wait.
“In earlier races, I did it for fun,
But this time it’s personal; they shouldn’t have won.
Without me to guard, the Deep State got its wishes;
They even made Sleepy Joe sleep with the fishes.
“His passion for people, I don’t doubt at all,
But his drug-addled brain was two sizes too small.
And now, through the back door, he let in the thieves,
Who have plenty of leftover tricks up their sleeves.
“Collusion, impeachment, scamdemics and cheating
Were child’s play when they face another defeating.
Redistricting, court-packing, adding new states,
And subjecting the rest to their mail-in mandates;
“Replacing electors with populist compacts,
While betting quite biggly on vote-rigging contracts;
Opening borders, defunding authorities—
All secure permanent Marxist majorities.
“Gaslighting, censorship, lockdowns and more,
Seem ripped from a page of 1984.
But we’ll stop it again, as we did one time prior;
Kamala’s agenda, we must now deny her.”
Then, dropping some dance moves, he shuffled away,
As up rose the strains of the “YMCA.”
His stogie extinguished with one final chomp,
On a red pachyderm, Trump charged toward the Swamp.
The story, from there, still remains to be told.
As a gift to the MAGA, Trump gave up the gold
Of his real-estate empire, and saved the whole land
From globalists’ clutches and anarchists’ hands.
Ben Sellers is the editor of Headline USA. Follow him at twitter.com/realbensellers.
