The Donald, Nothing More, by Joe Biden

Donald, Nothing More
By Joe Biden

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore —
While I nodded, nearly napping, rapping at my chamber door.

“Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door —

Only this and nothing more.

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

And that was twenty-twenty, more than a year before,
Eagerly, I wished the morrow; — vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Algore

Whose climate warnings were so much better than Fauci lore

Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrill me — filled with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door —
Some late visitor entreating entrance as my chamber door; —
This is it, Covid, nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact I was napping, and so gently you were rapping, 

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you — here I opened wide the door; —
Covid there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
    And the only words there spoken was the whispered words, “Fauci lore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Fauci lore!”—
            Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
    “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
      Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
            ’Tis Fauci lore and nothing more!”

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately ghost of the saintly days of yore;
    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
    But, with mien of lord or lady, moved above my chamber door—
Strutting upon a bust of Phallas just above my chamber door—
            Orange, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this Trumpian ghost beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be long and golden, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient ghost wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Mar a Largo shore!”
            Quoth the spectre, “Donald, nothing more.”

Much I marvelled this towering specter to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
    Ever yet was blessed with seeing Don above his chamber door—
The orange man upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
            With such name as “Donald, nothing more.”

But the orange man, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
    Nothing farther then he uttered—not a word then he uttered—
    Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have gone before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have gone before.”
            Then the ghost said “Donald, nothing more.”

 Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
            Of “Donald — nothing more.”

But the orange man still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat before the spectre, and bust and door;
    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous man of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous man of yore
            Meant in croaking “Donald, nothing more.”

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the man whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
    On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
            He shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Pelosi whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
    “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
    Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Algore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Algore!”
            Quoth the spectre, “Donald, nothing more.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of doom!—prophet still, if man or ghost!—
Whether Melania sent, or whether Ted Cruz tossed thee here ashore,
    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
    On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Wash, DC?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
            Quoth the spectre, “Donald, nothing more.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of hope!—prophet still, if man or ghost!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant holy book,
    It shall clasp a Nobeled man whom all Stockholm name Algore —
Clasp a rare and radiant laurete whom the angels name Algore.”
            Quoth the spectre “Donald, nothing more.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, man or ghost!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the Tower or the Mar a Largo shore!
    Leave no orange plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
    Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy word from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
            Quoth the spectre “Donald, nothing more.”
 

And the spectre, never moving, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Phallas just above my chamber door;
    And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
    And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
            Shall be lifted—Donald, nothing more!