Senior Mud Contibutor—David P. Zach—

 Ten little Indians, they dined                                                                                               

On Trump steaks, with Trump knives, and Trump wine.

 One ate so much

That his bridge went bust.

Then ten little Indians were nine.


Nine little Indians loved hate.

That’s how they Again Made things Great!

They whined and they quaked;

They were but snowflakes.

Then nine little Indians were eight.


Eight little Indians knew Kevin

By six degrees (five for Devon).

One got too footloose

And cooked his own goose.

Then eight little Indians were seven.


Seven little Indians were pricks

And bragged ‘bout the size of their sticks.

But one got too cocky;

Thought HE was top jockey.

Then seven little Indians were six.


Six little Indians’ ex-wives:

They sit list’ning to KISS Alive.

They scheme and they plot

To give what they got.

Then six little Indians were five


Five little Indians got sore

When some pointed out they were whores.

With nonsense they bellowed

(like Elvis Costello).

Then five little Indians were four.


Four little Indians can see

All the vodka they’re getting for free!

But life can get crueler;

One got popped by Mueller.

Then four little Indians were three.


Three little Indians would rue

That tax cuts were still far too few.

Riches were their trigger

(I’m not saying they’re gold diggers).

Then three little Indians were two


Two little Indians had fun

By stoking the blood lust for guns.

While all the world gaped

One got it on tape.

Then two little Indians were one


One little indian was dumb

Relentlessly, hopelessly dumb

His orange flame burned out

Leaving just a child’s pout

And, finally, then there were none.

About P.A. Kane

Writer and payer of tuition.

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