Mighty Mueller Has Struck Out
(A Homage to Casey at the Bat, by Ernest Lawrence Thayer)
The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Establishment team that day;
Rosenstein was getting nervous, with one term yet to play.
And then when Jeff recused himself, and Brennan went insane,
a sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.
Barak and Crooked Hillary got up to go in deep despair,
But radical Dems clung to a wicked hope in their infernal lair;
they thought if only the FBI could get a whack at Trump –
they’d put up even money, now, with Bob Mueller on the stump.
Then Flynn was nuked by Comey, and McCabe wrecked Manafort,
the former was a victim; of the latter, they made great sport,
and upon the stricken Trump team a melancholy sat,
for there seemed but little hope with Mueller stepping up to bat.
But Papadopoulous scored a single, to the wonderment of all,
and Carter Paige, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball;
and when the dust had lifted, and the elite saw what had occurred,
there was George safe at second and Paige a-hugging third.
Then from five thousand leftists there arose a noxious yell;
it rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
it knocked upon the Senate and recoiled upon the House,
for Mueller, mighty Mueller, had begun his cat-and-mouse.
There was ease in Mueller’s manner as he stepped into his den;
there was texting ‘tween Page and Strzok…again, and again, and again.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
no stranger in the crowd could doubt ’twas Mueller at the bat.
Ten thousand journalists lusted as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
five thousand actors applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
And then while Rudy Giuliani ground the ball into his hip,
defiance gleamed in Mueller’s eye, a sneer curled Weisman’s lip.
And now Trump’s tweets and rallies came hurtling through the air,
and Mueller stood a-watching in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the crafty G-man the ball unheeded sped—
“I’m above all that,” said Mueller. “Strike one,” America said.
From the benches, black with demons, went up a deadly roar,
like the beating of the storm-waves on a Martha’s Vineyard shore.
“Impeach him! Impeach the President!” shouted Maxine on the stand;
and it’s likely they’d have killed him had not Mueller raised his hand.
With Deep State condescension, great Mueller’s visage shone;
he stilled the rising vitriol of the sycophants back home;
he signaled to the President, and once more the missiles flew;
but Mueller haughtily ignored them, and America said: “Strike two.”
“Fraud!” cried the maddened socialists, whose lives are naught but fraud;
yet one scornful look from Mueller and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they heard his operatives swear,
and they knew that Mueller would bully and scheme for yet another year.
A stony mask took Mueller’s face, his henchmen writhed in hate;
he issued more subpoenas every day to seal Trump’s fate.
And now Jay Sekulow holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
and now the air is shattered by the force of Mueller’s blow.
Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
the band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
and somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
but there is no joy in Hateville — mighty Mueller has struck out.