The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Deep State hive that day:
The Electoral College had decided, and it didnt go their way,
And when Hillary finally lost, and the DNC did the same,
A tense silence fell upon the folks in the Beltway.
A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to the hope which springs eternal in the liberal 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 FISA preceded Mueller, as did also Jimmy C,
And the former was a in question, and no one trusts Comey;
So upon that confused swamp grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Mueller getting to the bat.
But FISA spied illegally, to the wonderment of all,
And Comey, the much despisèd, leaked to friends outside the mall;
And when the dust had lifted, the press framed what had occurred,
There was Comey safe at second and FISA a-hugging third.
Then from five thousand blogs and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the State House, it rattled in the dell;
It pounded on memorials and echoed down the hall,
For Mueller, mighty Mueller, got his chance to save them all.
There was ease in Mueller’s manner as he chose his brand new team;
There was pride in Mueller’s bearing in Muller’s eyes there was a gleam.
And when, responding to the press, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the swamp could doubt ‘twas Mueller at the bat.
Ten thousand eyes were on him as he searched for Donald’s dirt;
Five thousand tongues assured us of the greatness of his work;
Then while the Pres’s legal team did try to give him slip,
Defiance flashed in Mueller’s eye, a sneer curled Mueller’s lip.
And now the perjury charges came hurtling through the air,
And Mueller stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the erstwhile lawyer the charge unheeded sped—
“That ain’t my style," said Mueller. “Strike one!” the public said.
From the benches, and fake news press, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;
“Spin them! Spin the public!” shouted someone from the Post;
And it’s likely they’d have spun it had not Mueller quelled the roast.
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 Trump’s lawyers, this time Manafort’s charges flew;
But Mueller could not sell it and the public said, “Strike two!”
“Fraud!” cried the New York Times, and echo answered “Fraud!”
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 Ol Trump get off 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 pitcher 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 DC swamp the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;
And somewhere Dems are laughing, and somewhere children shout,
But there is no joy in Collusion-ville—mighty Mueller has struck out.
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Tim Mathis is a Texas-born standup comedian currently living in California.
WASHINGTON - SEPTEMBER 13: Robert Mueller, director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, testifies at a hearing on Capitol Hill on September 13, 2011 in Washington, DC. The hearing focused on whether, ten years after the September 11 terrorist attacks, the country is safer than it was. (Photo by Brendan Hoffman/Getty Images)