Numb. 1186 Wishful Thinking

’Tis the night of election in GOP Hall
no consciences stirring (theirs are very small)
among the assembled political hacks,
wary of daggers thrust in their backs,
when out in the foyer there arises a ruckus,
everyone whimpering, “The idiot fucked us!”
No one seeks out a mic or a camera
as FOX, reluctantly, declares for Kamala.
In a dark corner, McConnell, head in his hands,
wails loudly, crying, “I can’t understand.
Yes, he’s a miserable son of a bitch.
But we still need him. How dare voters switch!”
Crude Giuliani, forsaken and shrunken,
in his now accustomed state (drunken),
slurps his cigar while smoking his Scotch,
openly stroking non-functioning crotch.
Ivanka and Jared, Eric and Junior 
start to depart. They would have gone sooner
had not Trump commanded — such power he wields! —
to keep them around as human shields.
Trump abandons pretending being a hard one
and telephones Biden, begging his pardon.
GOP Senate and House candidates
go down to defeat at astounding rates.
Judges, unable to change their demeanor,
to the last man, flee to Argentina.
White supremacists embrace their nemesis,
misogynists don pink pussy hats.
Bad GOPers all say, “Pardon me.
We’ll live happily after.” And that will be that.

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Though it's fun to pretend how things could go,
this is a Hemingway “pretty to think so".