Down the Drain

The gator lay out on bank

And loved the smell, so rich and rank

Of miles of marsh. “That metaphor,”

He said, “which I have heard before—

‘to drain the swamp’—it makes no sense.

What swamp has given such offense?

Just look at ours—it’s lots of mud

And skeeters to suck up the blood

Of unsuspecting tourists while

This cousin of a crocodile

Can bask and wait for easy prey—

That small dog I ate yesterday—

But I digress—there’s miles of reeds

And snakes all tangled in the weeds

And trees for names I’m at a loss

But that grey stuff is Spanish moss

And over all that mud and grass

There is a scent like sewer gas—

A garden spot—so donald trump

Can liken DC to this swamp?

Where are those craven people here

Who have no conscience, just a fear

That if their vote makes homefolks mad,

It won’t be long before a bad

Turnout or even worse—a rival—

Endangers their long-term survival,

Who fight term-limits as “unjust”

Because, to profit most, they must

Hang on for years, avoid inspections,

And forge those lucrative connections

Which augment their poor federal wage

And help to cushion their old age?

Where are the zealots, who’ve the nerve

To swear the government they serve

Should be dismantled and cut off

While they feed from the public trough

And, when there comes that awful day

They lose, there’s always lucky K,

The street they know from all the globs

Of former cash who’ll give them jobs?”

The gator snuffed. “You ask me, one

Thing better’d be for Washington’d

Be send it all down here and we’ll

do all the draining—no appeal,

just feasts for weeks—with any sense

they’d start by shipping trump and pence

and work through congress, then a hearty

meal from each and every party

(although we’d keep some careful lists

And spare environmentalists)

And, when we’re full at last, you’d thank

Your friend the swamp, nor think us dank,

But cheerfully you’d volunteer

To drain that swampland every year!”

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