Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The Democrats cannot hear the Republicans;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the land,
The blood-dimmed 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 the Second Revolution is at hand.
The Second Revolution! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Andre Malroux
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with an obese body and the orange head of a fool,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant Left.
The darkness drops again but now I know
That two centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a stolen election,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Milwaukee to be nominated?
The Secret Service is a branch of which office? If he makes it to 2020 (which I think he will) and loses (which I hope he will), will he vacate the premises on 1/20/2021. Which agency would carry out the eviction order?
They used to be Treasury, but now they’re Homeland Security. As to who would deliver the bum’s rush, I have absolutely no idea. I don’t believe the Constitution spells out the enforcement mechanism.
P’raps the local gendarmes might put the arm on him for unlawful occupancy, littering (his knaves, varlets, and trouser stains are scattered around all over the place), and possession with intent (to wit, U.K. Sudafed).
Nope. In fact, the fat freeloader plans another of his Nuremberg rallies in Minneapolis on Thursday, and as per usual, is sticking the locals with the delivery charges for his great and unmatched wisdom.
I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”
Mad Blog Media 
Ok here goes.
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The Democrats cannot hear the Republicans;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the land,
The blood-dimmed 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 the Second Revolution is at hand.
The Second Revolution! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Andre Malroux
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with an obese body and the orange head of a fool,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant Left.
The darkness drops again but now I know
That two centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a stolen election,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Milwaukee to be nominated?
https://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2015/04/07/no-slouch/
No Slouch
By Nick Tabor April 7, 2015
On Poetry
The widening gyre of heavy-handed allusions to Yeats’s “The Second Coming.”
Gotta again recommend “Presidents of War” by Michael Beschloss.
“History doesn’t repeat itself; but it often rhymes” (allegedly Mark Twain I believe).
It is a very scary time!
The Secret Service is a branch of which office? If he makes it to 2020 (which I think he will) and loses (which I hope he will), will he vacate the premises on 1/20/2021. Which agency would carry out the eviction order?
They used to be Treasury, but now they’re Homeland Security. As to who would deliver the bum’s rush, I have absolutely no idea. I don’t believe the Constitution spells out the enforcement mechanism.
P’raps the local gendarmes might put the arm on him for unlawful occupancy, littering (his knaves, varlets, and trouser stains are scattered around all over the place), and possession with intent (to wit, U.K. Sudafed).
Preferably a ride in the back of a unmarked white van, with handcuffs on. Easy sleazy.
We must have the perp walk, of course. The old-school frog-march, with a bog-trotting beat cop twirling his baton for style points.
Meanwhile, in case you have come to suspect that we are led by feckin’ eejits, well, yes, we are.
Did he quit yet?
Nope. In fact, the fat freeloader plans another of his Nuremberg rallies in Minneapolis on Thursday, and as per usual, is sticking the locals with the delivery charges for his great and unmatched wisdom.
I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”