RUN, HILLARY, RUN!
“You are old, Mrs. Clinton,” the young voter said,
“And have to pretend to be strong;
And yet you incessantly sit on a stool —
Do you think, you’ll keep up, the act long?”
“In my youth,” Mrs. Clinton replied to the pup,
“I was always afraid of a fall;
But, it’s more than a stool, for the Press holds me up,
(and my Poll numbers, too!) through it all.”
’You are old,’ said the youth, as that old poem went,
“And have grown most uncommonly fat;
Yet you still wear those pants suits that look like a tent —
Pray, what is the reason of that?
“It is true,” said the Shrew, that even my Friends
“Say that I’m now shaped like a bubble
It may be certain garments — they call them Depends
And they help to keep me out of trouble.”
You are old, said the youth, your emails, you confess,
“Have been hacked, and are out on the ‘Net;
Yet David Petraeus was fired for much less
Pray, why aren’t you indicted yet?
In my youth, said Hillary, I went to Yale Law,
“And denied Bill’s affairs while his wife;
And the flexible conscience, which that gave to me
Has lasted the rest of my life.
You are old, said the youth, it would seem due to chance
That your gait remains steady and sure;
Yet you have seeming Seizures, or St. Vitus’ Dance —
Do you think, that they can, find a cure?
I have a private doctor, with an Epi-pen,
Said the Nominee; dont give yourself airs!
And the Press has to leave before I board my plane
Or they might see me falling downstairs!