The outlook wasn't brilliant for TEAville's simple people they say; The polls stood forty-nine to forty-two, with Obama just starting his big play.
As McCain did fall at first and then, too, Romney had done the same; blithering idiocy then fell like roaring rain from that village of the lame.
A straggling few got up to go in deeply confused despair as fate their spirit arrests. The rest clung to hope sprung eternal in shriveled grinch-like breasts.
If only Donald could get but a whack at that - they'd put up even money, yes, with their beloved Donald standing ready at the bat.
Then Obama's wins were over and gone away, and Hillary's team had now came to play; not lose.
And Jeb Bush preceded Donald, as too they say ole' Lyin' Teddy Cruz,
The former wore his tutu and the latter was but a fake, so upon that stricken multitude a slack melancholy soon had sat...
for there seemed little chance of their Donald's ever standing up to bat.
But Bush fouled before sight first, to the wonderment of all. And Cruz, the much despised, wore impossible dreams and nothing else to TEAville's favorite game of ball; and when the dust had lifted, and the village saw what had occurred.. There was Donald's team at second.. and Donald's hopes rounded safe on third!
Then from millions of throats there rose a confederate yell. It tumbled down the valleys, and echoed down the dells; It pounded on the mountains, it spilled across the flat,
for Donald, their dear Daffy Donald, was advancing up to bat.
All their wet eyes locked on as he rubbed himself bodily in TEAville's dirt; and those angry villagers roared so loudly for Donald wore that dirt so proudly. Then limp-wristed media pitchers ground waiting softballs into their open hips...
Defiance gleamed in Donald's eyes and a lusty sneer curled upon his lips.
And now a softly slung sphere came floating through the air, and Donald stood a-watching; a haughty grandeur there.
Close by the savvy salesman that first easy ball unheeded then did float -"That ain't my style" laughed The Donald, "That's just not at all my boat!"
"Strike one!" most reporters in chorus then said.
From their backyard benches, thick with angry TEAple, there went up a muffled roar,
like the pounding of far flung storms lashing waves at some sternly rocky and distant shore.
"Kill them! Kill the lefty media!" shouted thousands in that bitter TEA land;
and it's likely they'd have done so if but Donald had given them command.
With a smile of un-Christian charity Donald's eyes thus shone; this tumult he saw just needs to be nudged;
So he bade their parade = go on! He signaled to the media, and another softball flew;
But Donald still ignored it, and most reporters so adjudged:
"Fraud!" cried the maddened millions, and echo answered fraud;
but one sneering leer from The Donald.. and his audience was again left awed.
They saw his face grow puffy, they saw his veins swell and strain, and they knew that Donald just wouldn't let another softball go by, No sir! Not again... not their favorite flawed fraud.
That famous sneer filled Donalds face, his teeth clenched in hate; he pounds with partisan violence his bat upon the plate. And now the reporters ready their softballs.. but before letting them go.. The airwaves are shattered by an unbidden and surprising blow.
Oh, somewhere beyond TEAville's stands the sun is now shining bright; bands are playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts alight, and somewhere good decent people laugh out loud, and somewhere happy children play and shout;
But there is no joy in TEAville -
For Donald, Daffy-Donald, has truly just struck out.