Bleached Whales

Image credit: Bianca Van Dijk. CC0/Pixabay license.
                                1.Tale of a Cetacean            

What seemed to us sportive away,
Where the sea-shelf drops from the land,
Came into the shallows to play
And was tangled up by the sand.

It had air enough to survive,
If only breath were concerned,
But needed the water to thrive
Which lapped at its side and returned.

We rigged up a seine net and winch
To offer some help to the tide,
To rock it away from the pinch
Of the land that was after its hide,

But the land had merely to wait
For the end, in the end, of strength,
And will that runs counter to fate
Would give up on the game at length.

So the hulk that grows by the ton
Deferred to the arrogant flies,
The crabs and the gulls having done
With the damp, disencapsulate eyes,

And what was shows notably less,
As day is succeeded by day,
While wind and the tidal express
Are clearing the remnants away.

When the partisan sun takes its toll,
Smell will, unrecorded by charts,
Erect an invisible shoal
On the ghost of the renegade parts.

                            2. In Memory of Donald J. Trump Who,
                              Biting Off More Than He Could Chew,
                              Would Rather Choke Than Spit It Out

He was, to our shame, President,
A narcissist, demagogue, freak,
In the heart of the nation a stent
Creating, not plugging a leak.

Let him rot in the sun for a while,
And provide for the curious crowd
A noxious, exiguous bile
With the wind-blown sand for a shroud.

A venomous paunch packed with bloat,
Inflated by pride and decay,
The corpse of a maggoty goat,
On show one last lingering day

Providing a vision of Hell.
So Tweedledumb fades out of sight,
And leaves behind only a smell
To flatter the flatulent night.

Will Jordan and Gaetz and the like,
In the wake of the putrescent past,
Sniff deeply or just take a hike,
Or ride into the darkness at last,

With the rest of the dimwit brigade,
On a derelict, GOP trike,
While boofing the Party’s Kool-Aid,
As though plugging a hole in a dyke?

Time will tell, as Time always does,
But what’s sure is that in the end
They will all dissolve into fuzz
That vanishes rounding the bend.

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