From our political correspondent Dorothy "Lottie" Dawe:
The swamp is filling up -- and Donald Trump and the GOP are stocking the swamp with some of the most frightening creatures ever seen in Washington. A senate panel’s been grilling Tom Price, the nominee to head Health and Human Services under the Swamp King. Known as a “one man death panel,” Price even voted “NO” on expanding the Children's Health Insurance Program.
The terrors of “Mr. Trump’s Asylum of Horrors” at the Capitol, reminded us of Emmett Lee Dickinson’s poem “To know just how you suffer would be dear” (below on the left). His poem also inspired Emily Dickinson to write “To know just how he suffered would be dear” (below on the right).
The sarcasm in Emmett Lee Dickinson’s poem certainly mirrors the GOP’s position and their disgusting rush to pull the plug on health care for millions of Americans – and it certainly fits right in with Mitch McConnell’s sentiments (“If the uninsured are going to die then they had better do it and decrease the surplus population”).
Pictured at the right: "On Stage at Mr. Trump's ASYLUM OF HORRORS, Tom Price, the One Man Death Panel." Click the image to enlarge.
By Emmett Lee Dickinson:
To know just how you suffer would be dear;
To know we pulled the plug would be so nice
To know we’ve flourished with our
Until you settle firm in Paradise.
To know you were a patient we’re content
And that you’re dying we’re indifferent
It is a pleasant day to die
And in the sunshine go your way.
You’re furthest from our minds we must admit,
In such a distant way
The news says we’ve ceased human caring
On such a day.
And you wish you had coverage
But just sigh, accented,
You’re expendable to us.
And we are confident but still
We hope you wrote an everlasting will!
And when we vote, the ACA’s lost
You’ll be broke off from
All coverage you had!
Don’t be afraid, be tranquil.
We all know
How your unconsciousness will grow,
No need for coverage when you’re blest to be
Met – at the junction of Eternity!
By Emily Dickinson:
To know just how he suffered would be dear;
To know if any human eyes were near
To whom he could entrust his wavering gaze,
Until it settled firm on Paradise.
To know if he was patient, part content,
Was dying as he thought, or different;
Was it a pleasant day to die,
And did the sunshine face his way?
What was his furthest mind, of home, of God,
Or what the distant say
At news that he ceased human nature
On such a day?
And wishes, had he any?
Just his sigh, accented,
Had been legible to me.
And was he confident until
Ill fluttered out in everlasting well?
And if he spoke, what name was best,
What one broke off with
At the drowsiest?
Was he afraid, or tranquil?
Might he know
How conscious consciousness could grow,
Till love that was, and love too blest to be,
Meet—and the junction be Eternity?