By the Time the Votes Are Counted

By the time the polls close Tuesday, they’ll be bleating, They’ll find the seats they held are slipping out the door. They’ll laugh when someone says that Trump is cheating, ’Cause they’ve heard that same old story oft before.

Their red-state walls are finally springing, They’ll probably stop and wonder what went wrong. But they’ll just hear those ballot boxes ringing, And find their majorities are gone.

By the time they reach Ohio, they’ll be reeling, They’ll turn softly and call Trump’s name out low. And they’ll cry just to think their voters left them, Though time and time the polls had told them so.