There once was a harpy from Frisco
Coated in thick layers of Crisco
Her skin was drawn taut
But her mind, alas, was not
She's now as relevant as disco
And poets.
Don't forget the poets.
There once was a harpy from Frisco
Coated in thick layers of Crisco
Her skin was drawn taut
But her mind, alas, was not
She's now as relevant as disco
The boy stood on the burning Hill
Whence all his hopes had fled.
The flame that lit the battle’s wreck
Shown round him all the dread.
Yet puzzled and in shock he stood
A creature all forlorn
No work he’d ever done was good
No silver spoon twas born.
The flames rolled on -—He could not go
Without Obama’s nod.
Obama, playing golf somewhere
Heard not the poor man’s sob.
He called aloud, “Obama, say
What jobs have you us brung?”
He knew not that the chieftain lay
In bright Hawaii’s sun.
“Speak, I say, Obama
Oh, what am I to do?”
And naught but unemployment lines
He suddenly but knew.
Upon his brow, did sweat break out
At thought of his despair
And tried to think how he could live
On nothing but thin air.
And shouted, but once more aloud
“Obama! Do you hear?”
But all around, a gathered crowd
Proved no reply was near.
The hopelessness crept through him
And through his jobless friends;
They all began to realize
The lies they had been sent.
Then came a burst of joyful sound
From others coming near;
The ones who’s champion had won -—
The one for whom they cheered.
The Donald, who had won the day
At last had beat the foe
Who’d lied to them so many years
And ruined their country so.
Now they would win and win and win
And see their country great again
But that sad boy upon the Hill
Knew he was lost and humbled still.