At Donald Trump’s revival rallies, he inspires his cultish disciples with a wee bit of blarney by reading his favorite poem to them. He insists it’s about immigrants but, as with all his tall tales, he is the central character.
All you need know is the title and one line: “The Snake” hisses, "You knew damn well I was a snake before you took me in.”
March heralds the official launch of spring and validation to toast St. Patrick for driving the snakes from Ireland. It’s also the ideal time for Tony Perkins to issue bipartisan mulligans to all sinners.
Additionally, March brought a postcard to my mailbox featuring a rattlesnake photograph complete with scientific data conveying that these lovely creatures eat frogs. In all caps it warns: “STOP THE TRUMP BASHING – HE OWN (sic) 150K ACRES BEHIND YOUR STINKING (vulgarity). TURN YOU TO FROG.”
If the writer had supplied a name and return address, I’d thank him for confirming that those who sold their souls to the Donald were abundantly aware he is a snake. I’d issue my own warning to remember what Adam asked Eve: “Can we really trust a talking snake whose son-in-law bought 666 5th Avenue?”