100 YEARS OLD AND STILL AS EXPLOSIVE AS EVER...
TODAY, with no apologies whatsoever to Hilaire Belloc, we are pleased to add another Cautionary Tale to the verses penned by that fine wordsmith. This one’s called Young Donald (Who Was Freely Moved To Bombs): Young Donald, from the age of three, Inclined towards pugnacity. His riches, be they dad’s or mom’s, He spent on buying massive bombs To drop on anyone who might Be mad enough to pick a fight. But dropping bombs, he quickly learnt, Was something even rich kids weren’t Allowed to do on all their foes, Or anyone whom they oppose. So Donald grew up quite frustrated, And as the years went by he waited. And hordes of cash accumulated, As dreams of dropping bombs gestated. Then, past the age when most retire, Young Don regained his youthful fire. “My life,” said he, “won’t be misspent If I’m elected President. For then with Presidential ease I’ll drop my bombs on whom I please.” And so, convinced he couldn’t fail, He set forth on the campaign trail. He’d save for years his best artillery For shooting at the one named Hillary. He’d do his best with words to harm ‘er And badly wound her friend Obama. Now all at first thought him a joke, They asked each other: “Who’s this
bloke And how can he purport to know What’s better than the status quo? Reject his unconvincing spin, Vote Hillary, she’s sure to win.” But Donald had it all worked out, His scornful rhetoric had clout, For half the voters felt neglected, Lost, abandoned or rejected. Out they came on polling day To blow poor Hilly’s dreams away. All her hopes had turned to dust, In President Don they put their trust. But after all the ballyhoo Don didn’t quite know what to do. He really didn’t have a clue On what or when or why or who Or which vile tyrant he’d pursue To drop on them a bomb or two Their heinous actions to subdue And expedite their Waterloo. His orders followed, scrawled and
squiggly: “Bomb them all, and bomb them bigly,” For Don, remember, since a tot, Collected bombs and had a lot. Quite often he had liked to state That missiles have a bomb-by date. So just before they all went bad He fired a batch towards Assad. Then as his fans all screamed
“Encore!” Afghanistan received one more. The Mother of all Bombs, they say, To blow the IS threat away. “And for my next trick, maybe soon,” said Don, “perhaps this afternoon, I’ll flatten with my next typhoon, That reprehensible poltroon, That awful North Korean loon, The one they know as Kim Jong-un.” But when destruction’s astronomic Nothing’s quite like bombs atomic, For coaxing out our final quips And bid our last fond toodle-pips: A bomb collectors’ apocalypse.