she'd rather have a good laugh

i went underground on a strictly vanilla morn
when i heard old Triton play his wreathed horn,
and my dog jump over a fallen log;
her head was in a canine chipmunk fog!
but it was a good day for an even better walk;
on the way home we stopped many times to point and talk,
and two cars passed on my right,
their confederate flags flying high as they sped out of sight,
taking but two days to reach the Mississippi coast;
on the way i heard them scream and boast
both cars were Chevrolet from the good old USA!
and i just don't know
how much longer i can go
following in the footsteps of their dead wake
when i'm told something is real but i know it's fake.
my dog ran up to me
carrying a broken stick from the nearest tree.
she asked me if it was real;
i listened to southern black tires squeal
as she helped me to my feet.
on the return home we crossed a bigly main street
with a parade of roaring tanks and artillery shells,
and white sheep in abundance wearing charming cow bells
like a flock
as far long as a massive city block
and as wide
as the golfing fat man who lied
and then we stopped for ice cream and beer:
the more we drank the less we had to fear.
we heard there was a cabin in the woods for rent
and it was hot and i didn't have my tent,
so we decided to pause:
i rested my feet while she rested her paws
and the news gave us both a moment of relief;
an eagle-eyed reporter said the EPA chief was a thief.
i thought i'd try to give my dog a bath
but she said she'd rather have the popcorn and a good laugh.