Donald at the Bat (a Poem)

“Obamacare is safe for now, the law of the land, no doubt;
But there is no joy in Trumpville — mighty Donald has struck out.”

Adapted from Ernest Lawrence Thayer’s poem Casey at the Bat, first published in 1888.

The outlook wasn’t brilliant in the Trump White House Thursday:
The ACHA short on votes, the Freedom caucus in the way. 
And then when Dent said he was out, and Comstock did the same, 
Obamacare’s repeal seemed doomed, the Republicans to blame.

A straggling few confirmed their “yes” votes to Fox News. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, if only Donald had a chance to make a deal—
He’d twist some arms, they’d whip the votes, they‘d deliver the repeal.

But the Freedom Caucus insisted “we’ll scrap Obama’s plan”,
“Why require men to pay for things like women’s mammograms?” 
By that night the vote count remained short by more than twenty votes,
There seemed but little chance the Donald would have a chance to gloat.

But Donald said “we’re gonna vote, you’re with me or you’re not”, 
And Spicer, from his podium, said “a Plan A’s all we’ve got”;
The Oval office made it clear, Trump’s done negotiating,
The vote tomorrow must pass or Obamacare is staying.

Then from the Koch brothers there rose a mighty election threat:
If you vote “no” on the speaker’s bill, a primary challenge is what you’ll get.
And then it looked more promising, Obamacare would be dead,
For Donald, “The Closer”, was ready to sign his law instead.

And when, confronted with the facts, he simply brushed them off, No American could doubt ’twas the Donald and his coif.

There was ease in Donald’s manner as he sent out careless Tweets;
The President had confidence, despite not having won in weeks.
And when, confronted with the facts, he simply brushed them off,
No American could doubt ’twas the Donald and his coif.

Twenty four million would lose coverage as he readied his pen;
The one percent applauded, the taxes would come back to them.
Then while the writhing Democrats held the floor in loud protest,
Defiance gleamed in Donald’s eye, Donald was at his best.

And now on Friday the votes still looked to be a dozen short,
The speaker said we’re moving forward, nothing else to report.
At seventeen percent, the bill’s approval was looking weak,
“We’ll get this done,” said Donald. “Or else you’ll all lose your seats.”

From his base Republicans there went up a muffled roar,
On Facebook, Twitter, and on YouTube their comments were deplored. 
“The speaker must resign if he can’t get this done,” agreed some;
And its likely they’d a-ousted him had not Donald raised his thumbs.

A false-orange glowing smile on great Donald’s visage shone;
He assured his base that he would win; just look at what he’d done.
He insisted on a scheduled vote, but now Paul Ryan said,
“We’ll have to see what happens” when asked if the bill was dead.

An hour before the vote, the speaker rushed to Donald’s house;
He feared they didn’t have the votes, an all but certain loss.
They knew his skills— he’d written the book on hard negotiations,
If anyone could make a deal, Trump would, no hesitation.

The sneer is gone from Donald’s lip, his ears are pouring steam;
Privately he pounds with cruel violence his thumbs upon the screen.
In public, he concedes, the bill doesn’t have the votes to pass,
But he will not admit defeat; the losers, he insists, are the Democrats.

Oh, all over this favored land the sun is shining bright;
Millions keep their health insurance, despite their pre-existing plights.
Obamacare is safe for now, the law of the land, no doubt;
But there is no joy in Trumpville — mighty Donald has struck out.

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