Silver whistle in his mouth,
Trump looked westward,
Then looked south,
Then he puffed his cheeks
And blew a fearsome blast,
But the odd thing which appears
Is that no sound reached our ears
Though we heard the baying of some hounds roar past.
So it seems that certain notes
Are heard by some
Who cast their votes
For a candidate
Whose message seems to be
“If you harken to my call,
Which is not designed for all,
Then you’ll help to rearrange democracy.
It’s a mess, but I’m the one
Who can fix it,
So I run,
But my enemies–
Like the media—hardly fans–
And that liar, Hillary,
Would all pile on top of me
If they really knew my very secret plans.
But I trust you, faithful mutts,
Who are sure
That I’m not nuts,
‘Cause your ears went up
While you’re snapping at a flea.
So show the world that I can pick ‘em
When I shout for you to sic ‘em:
Vote for me and what a master I will be!”
Thus, would it be out of bounds
To think that many
Might be hounds
Who’d been summoned
From their long-forgotten graves
Where they lay from distant days
When, once trained in hunting ways,
They served masters to pursue escaping slaves?