Elections are of such futile import it is best to ignore the sad results of the febrile combination of the illusions of a travelling show and a horserace, yet in this case the white smoke will pronounce Pope Donald the Golden, a man of such imperious awfulness that only a couple of reasons should give him the grass crown: he is not Hillary; and the establishment of dunces, including the ludicrous mass media who were so firmly in the bag for this scoundrel’s unbearable opponent, will hopefully implode in shock and awe.
For the rest of us, it not being a mushroom cloud, as would announce Hillary, must needs suffice.
Chesterton was pretty much a scoundrel himself, starting off as a foul republican, and with his cloying devotion to Rome ( and anti-Germanic French rascality ) which today is served by the most nuttily devout Catholic blogs; but he was a great poet, and still greater romantic. And to his death he moved, as did Shaw, somewhat nearer the truth of Royalism: had all these old chaps of that generation lived another 100 years, they might have approached the throne of Legitimatism they had rejected so vehemently in press and print their whole lives.
“Out of the mouth of the Mother of God,
More than the doors of doom,
I call the muster of Wessex men
From grassy hamlet or ditch or den,
To break and be broken, God knows when,
But I have seen for whom.
“Out of the mouth of the Mother of God
Like a little word come I;
For I go gathering Christian men
From sunken paving and ford and fen,
To die in a battle, God knows when,
By God, but I know why.
“And this is the word of Mary,
The word of the world’s desire
‘No more of comfort shall ye get,
Save that the sky grows darker yet
And the sea rises higher.’”
Gilbert Keith Chesterton : The Ballad of the White Horse