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.
