Tennis Balls

From Anderson Rudge:

We're in the grips the coronavirus pandemic.  The president is muzzling the CDC so that people can't be tested and the truth is concealed (so "his numbers" look good) -- AND HE'S OUT GOLFING!  Then, the Third Lady tweeted this:

The "Tennis Pavillion"?!? 

I was outraged -- and not because Melania misspelled "pavilion" (there's only one L) -- but then I became infuriated when she followed that "let them eat cake" sentiment with this:

The narcissism & greed of this former porn star — and all the entire Trump family, honestly — is simply disgusting! The gall this woman has to tell us to "Be Best" is beyond words.

The Third Lady's absurd, indifferent and elitist comments called to mind Emmett Lee Dickinson's poem "She'd hoped for Pity -- not for Pain" (below on the left).  Dickinson's poem inspired third cousin Emily to pen her poem "I cried at Pity -- not at Pain" (below on the right).

By Emmett Lee Dickinson:
 
She’d hoped for Pity – not for Pain –
By what the Woman said
“Poor me” – and something in her
     tweet
Infuriated – me –
 
Such gall I stated, to myself
She seemed a common broad,
Her Airs, her Hubris, Curious
     things –
To look at, like a Fraud –
 
I sometimes hear “Rich people” cry
And see their Egos trolled –
And tested, I suppose – to Hell yeah,
They think they’re made of Gold –
 
She’s out of touch, do I care,
I think not, with her plea –
That so and so – she’s naught to me,
I’ll not feel differently.
 
I’m glad I know that Woman’s game –
So if she comes this way,
I’ll hold my life, but not my tongue
She’ll hear what I might say
 
She’s “can’t you all Be Best” – again –
Just give that Crap a rest –
She’s robbed herself of dignity,
We will not be Suppressed –

By Emily Dickinson:
 
I cried at Pity – not at Pain –
I heard a Woman say
"Poor Child" – and something in her
     voice
Convicted me – of me –

So long I fainted, to myself
It seemed the common way,
And Health, and Laughter, Curious
     things –
To look at, like a Toy –

To sometimes hear "Rich people" buy
And see the Parcel rolled –
And carried, I supposed – to Heaven,
For children, made of Gold –

But not to touch, or wish for,
Or think of, with a sigh –
And so and so – had been to me,
Had God willed differently.

I wish I knew that Woman's name –
So when she comes this way,
To hold my life, and hold my ears
For fear I hear her say

She's "sorry I am dead" – again –
Just when the Grave and I –
Have sobbed ourselves almost to sleep,
Our only Lullaby –