In the fairy-tale land Deploraldo,
those fertile fruit fields by the sea,
the frolicking folk danced the Baldeaux,
singing fatuous songs of the free.
They fêted the fall, as we all do,
for its gold wine, the pouilé-fuissy,
when a fell figure loomed, Orange Donaldo,
and a frightful foul figure was he.
He ate children whole like smoked kippers
as he stomped on grape-barns and press-wheels,
standing fifty feet tall in his slippers
and another four when he wore heels
in his black leather pants with white zippers
made of bones of poor clubbed baby seals
(he was also the cheapest of tippers,
say the wait-staff where he took his meals).
When his head first besmirched the horizon
the Deplori just thought it a cloud.
Then his shoulders appeared, and a wizened
vizier pointed and cried out aloud.
The Prez, part-time slam-poet, surmising
that the shadow spread forth “like a shroud,”
called his progress “a bad man arising”—
glanced about, and to scant applause, bowed.
Donaldo came straight for the village
and he smacked his huge lips on the way.
The Deplori knew that their grape tillage
was the least of the prices to pay.
Soon their blood would be soaking the sillage,
their suburbs, a smouldering buffet:
they’d be meat for his horrible pillage,
with their bones he would comb his toupee.
This impending disaster looked hopeless
but a grapepicker, Lizzie, took stock:
for Donaldo’s boots were both ropeless
and he had a large hole in one sock.
So she yelled to the Pres, “Hey, you dope! Less
oration! More planning! One rock
in my sling, and we’ll cope! Lis-
ten, pull yourself out of your shlock!”
She urged, “All that I need are the right tools--
spurs whose every sharp pointy edge cripples--
to bring the Orange down! So the Crown Jewels
are perfect. Then, once he tipples,
he’ll fall down the hill in the tide pools
and be swept out in undertow ripples.
I’m your only hope!”
(Poor naïve fools
forgot how, in crisis, greed triples!)
So they gave her the princess’ diamonds
and the town sent her off to do battle,
while imploring the goddess of Hymens
from their church, where they cowered like cattle.
Lizzie smirked to herself, “There’s just time, once
out of range to take skiff and paddle
to the neighboring Isle of Caymans
and I’ll buy my way out of the chattle.”
But the ogre grabbed Lizzie.
Should it turn out
that girl gets just desserts: eaten?
Should the Prez gets it next, the big lout,
and the princess swallowed too, pretty feet in
first? Then the cowardly town, who without
shame sent a girl off to be beaten?
Then Donaldo’d drop dead with gout,
and we'd turn somewhere nicer. Say, Sweden.
But you know, this old world is tricky:
though the highway to justice is paved
with mud, tar, and everything sticky,
just one wave can unglue the depraved.
Those diamonds that made morals icky,
fell into Donaldo and saved
Lizzie when his big greedy, unpicky
mouth swallowed and then his lung caved.
He fell in the ocean as planned,
dropping Lizzie, who started to drown,
but a quickwitted fishing boy manned
his skiff out to the spot she went down.
When he brought her back safely to land,
they were toasted, the stars of the town.
The boy asked for and got Lizzie’s hand.
The princess had to suppress a dark frown
for she’d mooned for that poor fishing boy
(that’s to say, she admired his legs).
The Prez lost his crowns and jeweled toy,
the princess came down a few pegs,
and Lizzie remained hoi-polloi,
doomed by Love to society's dregs.
But who needs to be rich to find joy?
Wine's as mellow in crystal as kegs.