One wishes someone other than Mr. Trump had been their champion. It’s certain many of them would have preferred a champion of different kidney. To paraphrase Donald Rumsfeld, who, along with the president and vice president he served, played his part in finishing off what remained of the conservative movement started by dear old dad: you go to the polls with the candidate you have, not the candidate you wanted. Remove the Troglo-Right element—white supremacists, bigots, anti-Semites, Islamophobes, misogynists, homophobes, Confederate flag-wavers, and other weevils in Pandora’s basket of deplorables—and the Trump constituency consists of good, decent, hard-working, church-going, war-fighting Americans. Richard Nixon called them the silent majority.

They’re not very silent these days. And who’d blame them? Some equity firm or hedge fund, likely headquartered along that blue littoral, bought the company that owns the factory they’ve worked at since their grandfather did; rolled it up with a dozen other factories; and moved it all to Guadalajara. Excuse my rust. Next day, they’ll read in the paper that the hedge-fund guy who did the deal made $2.4 billion. See that contrail up there soaring across the fly-over states? That’s his Falcon 900LX. You should see the interior. Pl-ush.

Is the name Jamie Dimon widely known in fly-over land? We elites read about him all the time. He’s the Tom Sawyer of Wall Street, always getting into some kind of trouble and being dragged before a congressional committee, Washington’s version of Aunt Polly with her switch. But he’s a smooth talker who makes a good case that all these gol-darned banking regs are hamstringing the industry. He always manages to come out on top, grinning boyishly. As a poster boy, Wall Street could do no better than Mr. Dimon. His net worth has been estimated at about $1.1 billion, according to Bloomberg, but that’s not really fancy money in big-bank or hedge-fund-land.

Every January, he flies across the ocean—I’m guessing not on American Airlines or Delta—to a town in Switzerland called Davos, where, as he’s said with beguiling self-awareness, “Billionaires tell millionaires what the middle class feels.” Davos is all about globalization, which is to say, figuring out where in Jalisco to put that Oklahoma tire factory. Who ordered the Margarita with salt? No, Mr. Blankfein ordered Chardonnay. Mr. Soros ordered the Margarita, no salt. Who had the Rolling Rock? No one. The only rolling rock you’ll find in Davos is a boulder falling off an Alp. Look out, Mr. Buffett!

Turning from the bracing alpine air to the mucky lowlands, we come to the swamp. In fly-over land, swamps are beautiful, often haunting, places, teeming with fish and other game. Here we find Americans wearing camouflage and with long beards, some of whom have become so wealthy from TV that they can probably afford a Falcon 900LX.

In the other swamp, the one roughly bordered by the Washington Beltway, is the habitat of another kind of American, homo politicus. This species, generally amphibian, eschews camo and extravagant facial hair. Politicians, particularly the “outsider”/ “crusader” kind, are forever proclaiming the urgent need to drain the swamp. Everyone agrees that draining the swamp is not only a good thing but a national imperative. And yet, the swamp eludes draining. Every time the plug is pulled, the waters recede just enough to reveal yet more varieties of swamp creature, croaking and dripping with weeds. Recently spotted specimens include Mr. Trump’s choice for Treasury Secretary, Steven Mnuchin, and for Commerce Secretary, Wilbur Ross.

Mr. Trump is going to drain the swamp and put a stop to the globalization, and the American workers—and out-of-workers—are going to be so happy. And only he—“I alone”—can do it.