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!”