The Camps

Last February I wrote some limericks inspired by my fears for America’s future. I left another in draft at the time, as it seemed premature, and I wasn’t entirely happy with how it scanned. This month’s events have—terribly, infuriatingly—given me the B-rhyme to nail it.

When Juanita crossed over the border, / ICE came to arrest and deport 'er, / No ifs, buts or maybes. / And to house her seized babies: / Concentration camps, made to Trump's order.

← 20 June 2018 · Politics →

I don't know if I should laugh. Or cry.

Added by COD on 20 June 2018.

Not really meant for laughs, this one.

I worry sometimes that I post nothing lighthearted here any more, but it’s hard to look away from the grim parade—and in cases like this, it would feel utterly wrong to.

Added by Rory on 21 June 2018.