President Donald Trump’s legal and procedural challenges to the Nov. 3 election remain very much a factor in the political sphere.
But among his supporters, the stacked deck in the mainstream media and the polarization of the judiciary leave, if nothing else, a sense of unease that perhaps blind justice will not prevail in his favor.
Even Trump himself has alluded to future plans that might include a new conservative media network or a 2024 rematch.
Amid all the uncertainty and drama, it hardly seems fitting to attempt a normal column—one that might be obsolete before the day is done.
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Instead—with apologies to the great Alexander Pope, Clement Clarke Moore and Dr. Seuss—I humbly submit my attempt at lyric poetry, imagining what election night 2024 may look like.
Note: The satirical aspects of the piece are, as of this writing, still protected under the First Amendment, according to my extensive research.
Return of the MAGA
’Twas the Fifth of November, and all through the nation,
Journalists tingled in anticipation.
“Another election,” they tweeted, self-sure,
Remembering how they had thrown it before.
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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 a throuple with Hunter and wee Greta Thunberg.
Though perfectly legal by Oregon standards,
You’ll do as we say,” the Burismans demanded.
He 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 Antifa and ISIS combined.
With a server he nestled, his feet in cement
That his UN ambassador specially had sent
From a gulag in Moscow—once part of a wall
That President Reagan had pressured to fall.
Meanwhile, Kamala had scuttled the rescue
And clung to the reins like a female Ceaușescu.
She cackled aloud in a Karenish 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.
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 Kanye, come Tucker, come Cotton and Cruz;
Come Meadows 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.
Follow Ben Sellers on Parler at parler.com/profile/Sellers.