Will the campaign never end?
Bad enough we're stuck with Covid,
have nowhere to go, nowhere to spend.
Oh, I know, there are those sick and dying —
I expect poor Democrats.
If I said I cared I'd be lying.
Here by the fire, I've no time for that.
What I truly miss is the parties,
celebrating our wealth with champagne,
toasting our most cooperative Congress
and even Donald — though he is a pain.
NOT one of us, but the underclasses
fall for his trumpery, take his message to heart.
Thereby confirming they are thick as molasses
and, like their Donald, not over-smart.
I dearly yearn to return to normalcy,
to reset the century clocks
back to our great-grandparents' day
when wealthy White Protestants owned all the stocks
and simple workers, content with a pittance
for working twelve hours per day,
expired early (there being no pensions)
and never asked for a raise in their pay.
Their wives scrubbed our floors, their sons fought our wars,
their prettiest daughters we made into our whores
in that best of all possible times.
A time of refinement when your enjoyment
meant doing whatever you wished all the time.
We cannot, I know, revive the past.
The best of times never do last.
Still, we hang on. We cope and we hope
that Donald prevails, though we know he's a dope.
