One of my father's favorite figures of speech was, "Your chickens came home to roost." I knew it meant something bad happened to you, but after hearing it a couple hundred times over the years, I finally asked what it really meant. He said, every farm has a small flock of feral chickens which roost in a tree, instead of the hen house. Every evening at sundown, they fly to their favorite tree to sleep for the night. Just before falling asleep, they all defecate in unison. The ground is well marked. If you happen to be standing under the tree at that moment, you have no one to blame for yourself when a shower of chicken shit pours down.
Trump's chickens have truly returned to the roost and he is tied to the tree.
It's the line from The Great Gatsby about rich people, “They smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness, or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean up the mess they had made.”
Trump has always been able to retreat into his money, but now there's not enough money in the world to cover his retreat.
