Here, Boy!

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?



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