Coda for Robert Mueller

Robert Mueller, a mere shadow of his former self as a U.S. Marine platoon leader, beckoned but wistfully failed to assert command of the Trump–Russian collusion snipe hunt subject matter.  The special prosecutor's report was presumably, yet clearly not, his own work product.  Mueller could barely remember his own name, indeed having no clue which president signed his commission as U.S. attorney, a touchstone for anyone having a 40-plus-year career at the highest levels of the U.S. Justice Department.

Adrift, detached, Mueller's jib was shapeless, sagging, with sheets frayed.  He was unable to recall, or defend, let alone repudiate any contours of a conspiracy bearing his name to politically assassinate a president.  Mueller was a hostage obviously commandeered by, or gleefully appropriated by, rabid Democrat partisans, whose sole mission was to frame an innocent man.  Whether foil or fool, Mueller foundered, spectacularly.

What a wretched finish to a life lauded by many as honorable, selfless, and patriotic.  Of course, Mueller's actual work as U.S. attorney and FBI director was barely competent and often duplicitous — persisting in prosecuting innocent men, from the Boston mafia scandal to the anthrax investigation.  Mueller's mode was unusually sloppy, and sinister, despite his successful Merlin-esque transformation into the inscrutable illusion of a noble liege.

As Mueller commissioned his "special" prosecutors to slash and burn the presumption of innocence, framing victims with process crimes of entrapment, he wrapped dishonor about his shoulders, silently assenting to a national movement normalizing nullification of a legitimate presidential election.

John Keats, early 18th-century English poet, caught up with Mueller at the U.S. House Judiciary Committee hearing room, where Mueller, and Democrats' impeachment dreams, expired: 

Alone and palely loitering.
Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake
And no birds sing.

Mueller, dazed and disoriented Wednesday, later awakened from his slumber, murmuring to himself, "Why did I sojourn here?"

Mueller caricature by Donkey Hotey

Robert Mueller, a mere shadow of his former self as a U.S. Marine platoon leader, beckoned but wistfully failed to assert command of the Trump–Russian collusion snipe hunt subject matter.  The special prosecutor's report was presumably, yet clearly not, his own work product.  Mueller could barely remember his own name, indeed having no clue which president signed his commission as U.S. attorney, a touchstone for anyone having a 40-plus-year career at the highest levels of the U.S. Justice Department.

Adrift, detached, Mueller's jib was shapeless, sagging, with sheets frayed.  He was unable to recall, or defend, let alone repudiate any contours of a conspiracy bearing his name to politically assassinate a president.  Mueller was a hostage obviously commandeered by, or gleefully appropriated by, rabid Democrat partisans, whose sole mission was to frame an innocent man.  Whether foil or fool, Mueller foundered, spectacularly.

What a wretched finish to a life lauded by many as honorable, selfless, and patriotic.  Of course, Mueller's actual work as U.S. attorney and FBI director was barely competent and often duplicitous — persisting in prosecuting innocent men, from the Boston mafia scandal to the anthrax investigation.  Mueller's mode was unusually sloppy, and sinister, despite his successful Merlin-esque transformation into the inscrutable illusion of a noble liege.

As Mueller commissioned his "special" prosecutors to slash and burn the presumption of innocence, framing victims with process crimes of entrapment, he wrapped dishonor about his shoulders, silently assenting to a national movement normalizing nullification of a legitimate presidential election.

John Keats, early 18th-century English poet, caught up with Mueller at the U.S. House Judiciary Committee hearing room, where Mueller, and Democrats' impeachment dreams, expired: 

Alone and palely loitering.
Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake
And no birds sing.

Mueller, dazed and disoriented Wednesday, later awakened from his slumber, murmuring to himself, "Why did I sojourn here?"

Mueller caricature by Donkey Hotey