Numb. 971 A Republican Covid Lament (a fireside musing from a country estate)

Will this election ever be over?

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.