The queen who’d never have a throne

Sat in her study, all alone,

And, while the tv outside thundered,

She frowned, drank coffee, slowly pondered


Why she once more had been defeated.

“I know I got more votes than he did—

I prepped more, thought more, had more knowledge

And yet he wins the electoral college!


I had more money, past and recent,

I grew up Methodist, have decent

Speaking skills—what has he got

When all his life’s a perfect blot


Of lies and stiffing, lies and groping?

And look at me—all I was hoping

Was that, one January day,

I’d hear John Roberts start to say,


‘Madam President’—my task!

So, tell me, it’s not much to ask

That I be head of state—now is it?”

But then she had a quiet visit


From her angel, who, much older

Than the last time, grabbed a shoulder,

And replied, “I’m not an oracle,

But if that last was not rhetorical,


Consider that your current position

Comes down to what was blind ambition:

You’re smart enough, at base, to know

Your flaws: that furtiveness that so


Drives you to act like you’re in court,

No matter where—a last resort,

Perhaps, but think what you’ve implied:

That you must have a lot to hide.


You’ve climbed too fast and are too rich

And have a smile tied to a switch,

And baggage piled enough to kill

Two candidates—then add in Bill,


Whose charm grows thin, so that the cheers

Grow fainter with the passing years

And no one notes his current scores

With bimbos, just the louder snores


Of anyone who hasn’t fled

Those empty talks he makes for TED.

Oh, yes, no doubt it’s also true

That feminism had to do


With your defeat—you’ll always find

Those clots of men who are so blind

As think that women, as a class,

Are nothing but two tits and ass,


But, at base, give truth its due:

The reason why you failed is you

And, thanks to you, to heils and cheers,

We’re all set back a hundred years.


What can you do? Sit down—shut up—

Accept what is a bitter cup,

Then work as hard as you can, kid,

To make up for the wrong you did


And maybe, with hard work in plenty,

Things will improve in 2020.”

“That’s good advice, good angel, thanks!

I’ll do that. Back into the ranks


And work for others: when I’ve cleared

Myself—“ but suddenly appeared

That other figure—horns and all—

As if by instinct came the call


And he said, “What? Are you a chump?

You beat that racist, bigot trump!

And so you feel a little pain?

Best cure is do it all again!


You’ve got the ethnics in your camp,

At money-raising you’re a champ.

You’re drinking coffee? Have a vente!”

“Yes!” she toasts, “To 2020!”


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