“The Orange”

A tragic poem in the tradition of Edgar Allan Poe, defiled by narcissism, Twitter rage, and cheeseburgers.

Once upon a press night dreary, while he ranted, bored and bleary,

 Over many a slanderous screed of fake news he would deplore—

 While he nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a yapping,

 As of someone gently clapping, clapping outside Mar-a-Lore.

 “’Tis the base,” he muttered, snapping, “lining up outside my door—

 Just the patriots. Nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,

 And each separate Fox News member sold his soul out on the floor.

 Eagerly I wished for ratings; vainly I had sought translating

 Tweets of rage into debating—debates I always would ignore—

 For the glorious red wave promised sweeping every shore—

 But it whiffed. Like before.

And the golden, gilded sorrow of each borrowed, fake tomorrow

 Threw its shadows on the Lincoln bust I bought from Louis Four.

 So I sat there, deeply scheming, eyes glazed over, barely gleaming,

 Thinking thoughts that were redeeming only to the dumbest core—

 “Surely,” said I, “this is dreaming—that I lost the thing I swore—

 They rigged it all. It was a war.”

And the wallpaper uncertain rustled in my dim resort curtain

 Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic MAGA terrors never felt before;

 So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I kept repeating

 “’Tis the FBI entreating entrance at my golden door—

 Some indictment or a subpoena tapping at my golden door—

 I’ll ignore it. Like before.”

Open now I flung the shutter, when, with many a squawk and flutter,

 In there stepped a stately Orange bird with hair like cheap décor.

 Not the least obeisance made he; not a Tweet did he craft shady;

 But, with pose of king so weighty, perched above my Diet drawer—

 Perched upon a bust of Reagan just above my Diet drawer—

 Sat and squawked out: “Nevermore.”

Then this orange bird beguiling my delusions into smiling,

 By the grave and greasy glory of the wig that it once wore,

 “Though thy crest be oddly matted, thou,” I said, “art sure not fatted—

 Ghastly, grim, and overrated relic of my days of yore—

 Tell me what thy cursed name is on the MAGA-swollen shore!”

 Quoth the Orange: “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, or loyal weasel!—

 Whether troll, or whether sent from Murdoch’s foul, revolving door—

 Tell me truly, I implore thee—have I lost my base before me?

 Will they charge me, jail me, bore me—throw me through a prison door?”

 Quoth the Orange: “Four more wars.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or beast!” I shrieked, restarting—

 “Get thee back to Twitter’s darkness and your post-truth metaphor!

 Leave no hair dye as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

 Leave my golf clubs unbroken! Quit the bust above the door!

 Take thy comb-over from my heart, and take thy ass out the door!”

 Quoth the Orange: “Nevermore.”

He still sits there. Still is sitting, ratings dropping, patience flitting,

 On the pallid bust of Reagan just above the Diet drawer.

 And his eyes have all the madness of a man who lost the ballots,

 And the light post-midnight salads stream their shadow on the floor;

 And the people from his shadow that lies sinking on the floor

 Shall believe him…

Nevermore.