I joined over 4,000 of my closest friends for Saturday’s “No Kings” protest along the open border between Vermont and New Hampshire. As protests go, it was very Upper Valley-ish: mellow as a golden retriever, with a happy-to-be-here vibe.

People waved at traffic. Drivers tooted horns. If we could shoo away a very bad president, we would be done with him.

Gray hair was in fashion, though there were a fair amount of younger folks, which I was glad to see. It’s not their fault that American politics has come to this, but here we are, and now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country.

Alums of old-time typing class might recall that phrase from practice sessions before the mighty Underwoods of yore. As surely as “the quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog,” now is the time for action.

In a way, No Kings felt like a Clever Poster Festival. If there were some 4,000 persons on the sidewalks of West Lebanon and White River Junction, there were nearly as many signs. In this golden age of content creators my fellow locals were up to the task.

They wrote things like “No Kings Since 1776,” “Resist,” “Hate Won’t Make America Great,” and “Keep Your Vile Little Hands Off My Democracy.”

I liked “If Kamala Had Been Elected, We’d Be at Brunch.” Someone had a brightly colored sign that simply said, “Nope,” which summed up things nicely.

But I also liked the sign held by a woman who brought her small pup to the protest:

CHIHUAHUAS

AGAINST

FASCISM

Of course they are, I thought. It makes perfect sense.

I was pleased with my own sign. As a person who regularly grinds out 800 words every two weeks for this very newspaper, I knew I should give myself a strict word limit. Two days before the rally, I was mulling over this:

Reign, reign, go away ...

Then, something, something, something ...

That’s when rain was in the forecast, but I don’t know, it lacked punch.

Fortunately, on the eve of the protest, my poster came to me, as if in a dream. I kept the concept to myself.

I woke up early Saturday, bought some poster board and magic markers, and put it together.

On the top half, an image of angry Donald Trump wearing a crown. (Thanks, internet.)

Next to Trump, a word printed out large and proud: No!

On the bottom half, an image of Elvis, his regal girth resplendent in his cape.

One word: “Yes!”

I’d said it all in two words.

Now I am sure some people thought “what the heck,” but many seemed to get it. Wise men say there is only one true king for America; he is gone, but still with us.

As for That Man in the White House (a term allegedly coined when certain patricians didn’t want to even say the name of Franklin D. Roosevelt, class traitor), we will bid him adieu in 2028, if not sooner. That would be 12 years of his exhausting act, now with a Cabinet of trained poodles.

Meanwhile, we missed Trump’s Birthday/Military Parade (Tanks for the memories!), which drew a small, low-energy crowd, except in his imagination and on Fox News. He should know that the secret to a great parade is having an inflated giant Snoopy balloon, like Macy’s, or some nifty nuclear tipped missiles, like North Korea’s. Also, finishing up with Santa on a sleigh is always good. (Melania would make a swell Mrs. Santa, by the way. Just imagine her smiling/scowling at the kiddies.) Maybe next year.

As for me, at 72 this was my first protest. Someone kidded me about being there, since I’m a journalist and forbidden to take sides. But I am retired and writing columns is something else entirely. I am entitled to my opinions, even if hare-brained or convoluted. And how is that different from what is coming from the White House these days?

Through the years I have been most comfortable taking strong stands against bad weather or numskull Red Sox trades. For the most part I left the running of the country to those of a higher station than myself. But then came Trump. Now I can see the insufficiency of that.

I asked a man next to me at the rally what brought him there. He said he works with an organization that helps resettle refugees. “Oh, that explains it,” I said.

“And what about you?” he asked in return. “What brings you here?”

I gave it a moment’s thought and needed just one word.

“Everything,” I said, and sighed.

Dan Mackie lives in West Lebanon. He can be reached at dan.mackie@yahoo.com.