Within a typical and rather mediocre New Yorker piece on Trump is this:
In his rallies, he has taken to giving dramatic readings of the lyrics of a song, by Al Wilson, called “The Snake,” which he presents as a parable about the dangers of immigration: a woman saw a beautiful snake at the side of the road, almost dead from the cold. She took it home, warmed it up, saved its life, and “clutched it to her bosom”—Trump always emphasizes that phrase—whereupon it bit her. As she died from the venom, she asked why. “You knew damn well I was a snake!” Trump shouts. The world is scary; people don’t change.
I hadn’t yet heard of Der Trumpster doing this variation on “The Scorpion and the Frog”, but both are wonderful examples of folk wisdom’s inherent conservatism, being bottom-up knowledge accrued over time and passed along vis-à-vis folktales, stories, songs, and the like.
