Mole rats should be the official mascot of the ‘republican’ party,
to be sold at the gallery concession store, some in tiny shirts
with stop the steal and such rat poop as befitting. Not shitting.
Inside the dome, walking their wheels, they’ll be the envy
of the eagles, bisons, hawks, turtles and vultures in the vaunted hall.
On the wall, their posters, big teeth agape, spitting dirt. Spewing lies.
Quailanon (not Quayleanon) has become their new leader.
He is everywhere and nowhere, underground and in your seat.
Their unseeing eyes only can sense his vital presence.
And now on to the mission of recruiting apes and asses.