Comey at the Bat

By Ecklebob Chiselfritz

(Yeah, I stole the bones of this from  Ernest Thayer's - "Casey at the Bat: A Ballad of the Republic Sung in the Year 1888". Sue me.)

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Democrats that day;
the Senate Intel  committee stood seven to six, with but Comey left to play.
And then when Kamala Harris died at first, and Mark Warner did the same,
a sickly silence fell upon the Progressive patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
they thought, if only Comey could get but a whack at a Trump MAGA hat –
they'd put up even money, now, with Comey at the bat.

But Feinstein praised Comey, as did also many a flake,
and the former was a lulu and the the future of the Dem party was at stake,
so upon that stricken multitude grim hatred sat,
for there seemed but little chance of Comey knocking off Trump's hat.

But Heinrich let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
and Angus King the much despised, tore the cover off the hushed hall;
and when the dust had lifted, and CNN saw what had occurred,
there was Michael Flynn safe at second and Trump a-hugging third.

Then from millions of throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
it rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
it knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
for Comey, mighty Comey, was advancing to the mic.

There was ease in Comey's manner as he sat in his place;
there was pride in Comey's bearing and a smile on Comey's face.
And when, responding to the swearing in, he agreed to tell the truth,
no Democrat in the crowd could doubt 'twas Comey would provide collusional proof.

The New York Times eyes were on him as he prepared to dish his dirt;
Rachel Maddow's tongue applauded when he portrayed a victim hurt.
Then while the writhing audience heard Rubio shoot from the hip,
defiance gleamed in Comey's eye, a smile curled Comey's lip.

And now the words from Comey's  leather-covered day planner came hurtling through the air,
and Comey sat a-talking in haughty grandeur there.
Close to the murky main stream media narrative his words unheeded sped--
"Trump's a lying bully," said Comey. "Strike one," the Democrats 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.
"Kill Trump! Kill Trump!" shouted a Clinton supporter in the stand;
and it's likely they'd have killed him had not Comey over played his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Comey's visage shone;
he stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
he signaled to the Chairman, and once more his baseless innuendo flew;
but Comey still ignored knowledge of it, and the Democrats said: "Strike two."

"You poor man!" cried the maddened media, and echo answered this fraud;
but one baleful look from Comey and the Washington Post was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
and they knew that Comey wouldn't get to swing at Trump again.

The smile is fake upon Comey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
he pounds with impotent violence his bat upon Trump's plate.
And now Republicans hold the ball, and wont let it go,
and now even Chris Matthew's is shattered by the whiff of Comey's weak blow.

Oh, somewhere in the Clinton camp the sun is shining bright;
the band is playing somewhere in Chappaqua, and few of Hillary's supporters hearts are light,
and somewhere Nancy Pelosi is laughing maniacally for Chuck Todd, and Chuck Schumer is senselessly babbling into a CBS microphone;
but there is no joy in California or New York — mighty Comey has struck out.