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‘Trump’ Presidential Prophecy Poem by Nostradamus

Donald Trump (A Clerihew*)

Donald “The Donald” Trump
Surprisingly took to the political stump
What is, perhaps, not as great a surprise
Is that he should thrive in a realm ruled by lies.

*A clerihew is a whimsical 4-line verse about a famous person.  It is named after Edmund Clerihew Bently, a friend of G.K. Chesterton.

 

Presidential Race

The typical Greek city state
Had more men of substance and weight.
Where they had their Socrates,
We have mediocrities.
No wonder we’re no longer great.

 

New Road to Damascus

A response to a poetical Washington Post column by Gene Weingarten

A smart young Jewish couple
Was strolling by a church
When a sign they saw out front
Stopped them in a lurch.

“Come in and be baptized,
And we won’t make you rich,
But we’ll give you a hundred dollars.”
Read the enticing pitch.

The man dropped all resistance,
And was forthwith drawn inside
Against the grave forebodings
Of his much more prudent bride.

Snapped she upon his emergence,
“Did you get your hundred, honey?”
Asked he, “What’s with you people
That you only think of money?”

 

David Martin is a Washington economist and political commentator.

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2 Responses

  1. Profile photo of 绿山从 From Green Mountain  (Cong Lu Shan)
    绿山从 From Green Mountain (Cong Lu Shan)

    ahhhh…. not to comment. that’s the thing!

    so here, a comment for another poem, to solve the riddle of “political analysis”
    commentary can rot in its

    Solving a Riddle

    In response to Son of Europa

    The poem of Europe
    Leaves my mind awake.
    From dreary slumber
    To the heights of Athens.

    For now I see that all those temple gates
    Upon the mountains truly did bear witness.

    To gods who watched and cared for mortal man.
    And in return man honored heaven’s will.

    This solves to me the riddle of the lock.
    As to why hearts today are left so cold.
    To the grand mercy left at heaven’s gate
    That is left open still to all all who breathe.

    Yet I as well have grown old and callous.
    No longer do I spry with joy for beauty.
    The senses, dulled by mundane stupid clamor
    I’m left with this, my only one sense: duty.

    Reply

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