Here they come again,
The cowards in their quisling parade
Sneering their boilerplate sanctimony
As they skulk in their hiding places
Cursing America's greatness.
The gutters are clogged with the craven
The ones who couldn't be bothered
The others refusing to act
The ones who are losing their shame
The ones who've forgotten their principles.
The hiders wear fig leaves which wilt.
Their heads are buried in sand
Their tears make a pool in the dirt
Their courage is a stain in their pants
Their eyes are shut tight and their scrotums
Hold only ping pong balls
And all the airwaves are alive
With the sound of American victory.