It’s not fair for President Trump to accuse The Squad of not loving America. He knows darn well that they’d burst into flame if they tried saying those words.
It’s not fair for President Trump to accuse The Squad of not loving America. He knows darn well that they’d burst into flame if they tried saying those words.
Well they love a fictional America, the real one… not so much.
Consarn it, that’s choice! I’m gonna write a poem that starts out with those words.
(You can have the country western song rights!)
[A fiddle starts]
♫ ♪ ♫ ♪
{A fight breaks out. The fiddle starts again:}
{Flute, drum, and guitar join in.}
♫ ♪ ♫ ♪
“Well, they love a fictional America
The real one, not so much:
Imaginary democracy
Which they love overmuch.”
“Their image of immigration
Is as phony as a crutch;
To solve the situation
They’d rather we go Dutch.”
{Bottles crash against the chicken-wire separating the band from the audience — in approbation, or else on probation. A would-be mime attempts to show how a Dutchman would stop a flood, and is suppressed.}
“They move their wealth from town to town
Not families, jobs, or such;
They’re far too busy doubling down
To learn to double-clutch.”
{The sober nod. The drunks do the same. The remainder sing together, but not in unison:}
“All these things, they drive us
And!
Don’t bother us too much:
All of it will survive us
But!
Curse their reverse Midas touch!”
♫ ♪ ♫ ♪
{Last call}
Momma would be proud.
She wouldn’t let you grow up to be a cowed boy, though, would she?
She wanted me to be a doctor, or lawyer, or such.