by Roger White
Oh, my dear discombobulated disciples. Oh, my concerned cosmic cadets. Oh. Oh. … and another oh. If you’re of my ilk and persuasion, these last few days have been nothing short of the Rod Serling variety. Real life transpiring before our very peepers in the Washington of D.C. vicinity has been so unbelievably medulla-twisting that my hand shakes too much to even give you an offering. So I’m typing this with my feet.
It is at times such as this (the last time being about the McCarthy era) that I find I can only express myself through song or poem. Since I have absolutely no ability to write an original song or poem, I will kidnap one. So, seeing as how I am so utterly gobsmacked that I can only send my missives to you through song, here, then, is my rendition of “Beltway to Heaven,” penned to the tune of Zeppelin’s classic, “Stairway to Same.”
Note: If you can’t play “Stairway” in your head as you read on, then this will make no sense to you whatsoever and you will become convinced that my brain has been pecked by pigeons. The latter may be true, of course, but proceed, if you will:
There’s a man in D.C., as crude as he can be,
And his massive ego rules his obsession.
When he can’t get what he wants, then he whines and he taunts,
And his mind swims with revenge and oppression.
Oooh, oooo-oooh, and his lunacy may send us all to heaven.
The story we know by rote; he lost the popular vote,
’Cause all the Mexican rapists voted against him.
Tho his reasoning is cracked, he cites alternative facts
To convince us all how bigly we will win.
Oooh, oooo-ooh, and the Doomsday Clock is long past eleven.
There’s a feeling we get, that our nation’s trade debt
Will soon be the largest in history.
Yes, he’s gonna build the wall, so huge and bigly tall,
And how Mexico will pay is still a mystery.
Oooh, oooo-ooh, and his lunacy may send us all to heaven.
And it’s whispered that soon, that this faux-tanned orange goon
Will steal the oil from all Middle East nations.
And a new day will dawn, yes, World War III he will spawn,
And the world will fall into desolation.
Oooh, oooo-ooh, and I doubt this clown will make it to heaven.
(picking up the tempo now)
If there’s an immigrant in your way,
Hey, torture’s OK,
Just call the Feds and he’s long gone.
Yes, there are two paths you can go by,
But Cheetoh’s our guy,
Who needs brains when you have brawn?
Oooooh, but it makes me wonder.
His head’s inflated, his life is cushy,
He grabs your p—y,
David Duke and Putin are his friends.
Dear Donnie, can you hear the marchers?
Call forth your archers
To defend your kingdom from the women.
(kicking it in!)
And as we wind on down the road
Through his narcissistic episodes,
Our world standing soon erodes,
Our health care flushed down the commode,
He promised work for the common man,
But where’s his great master jobs plan?
Please tell us so we’ll understand,
You hold us all in your small hands.
Don’t be a rock if you can’t roollllll………..
And he’s pushing us all to Armageddon.
Roger White is a freelance something-or-other living in Austin, Texas, with his lovely wife, two precocious daughters, a morbidly obese but mannered dachshund, and a cat with Epstein-Barr Syndrome. For further adventures, visit oldspouse.wordpress.com.