The Trump Coming

(with apologies to W. B. Yeats)

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The eagle preys on the pilgrim.
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The hate-filled tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely Trump’s Coming is at hand.
Trump’s Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Middle America
Troubles my sight: from the depths of a rusted wasteland
A shape of malevolence with the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its vapid lips, while all about it
Reel shadows of hooded avengers.
The darkness drops again but now I know
That years of democratic sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by an orange grin.
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Gropes towards Washington to be born?

 

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