Mueller at the bat

Gene Mattecheck: My apologies to E.L. Thayer.

The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Hillary that day:
The score stood 306 to 227, with but one inning more to play,
And then Wisconsin died at first, and Pennsylvania did the same,
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.
 
A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The “Resistance”
Clung to the hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, “If only Mueller could but get a whack at that—
We’d put up even money now, with Mueller at the bat.”
 
But Sessions preceded Mueller, as did also Rosenstein,
And the former was a hoodoo, while the latter wasn’t fine;
So upon that stricken “Resistance” grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Mueller getting to the bat.
 
But Sessions chose recusal, to the wonderment of all,
And Rosenstein, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,
There’s Rod safe at second and Jeff’s a-hugging third.
 
Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It pounded on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Mueller, mighty Mueller, was advancing to the bat.
 
There was ease in Mueller’s manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Mueller’s bearing and a smile lit Mueller’s face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the “Resistance” could doubt ‘twas Mueller at the bat.
 
Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt;
Then while the pitcher, Donald Trump, ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance flashed in Mueller’s eye, a sneer curled Mueller’s lip.
 
And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Mueller stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped—
“That ain’t my style,” said Mueller. “Strike one!” the umpire said.
 
From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;
““Impeach him! Impeach 45!” shouted Maxine Watters on the stand;
And it’s likely they’d have gone insane had not Mueller raised his hand.
 
With a smile of Christian charity great Mueller’s visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to “The Donald,” and once more the dun sphere flew;
But Mueller still ignored it and the umpire said, “Strike two!”
 
“Fake News!” cried the maddened “Resistance,” and echo answered
“Fake News!”
But one scornful look from Mueller and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Mueller wouldn’t let that ball go by again.
 
The sneer is gone from Mueller’s lip, his teeth are clenched in hate,
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate;
And now the Trumpster 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 favoured 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 Resistanceville—mighty Mueller has struck out.

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