Hello, 'bama; hell no, mama!
He's the one who'll spar with grandpa.
Gramps is very entertaining,
But best left to rep state where it's hardly raining.

He don't like that man from Ivy
League school. . .finds him bit too jivey.
But if Johnny is the winner,
He'll wage more wars and make our stores of dough thinner.

The count's eight years of dead-weighters,
Scammers, fake ad-ministrators.
He who gets the White House, it's he's
Got to clean out huge piles of sh!t--like Ulysses.

The last eight years have been scary,
Like scenes from Moe, Curly, Larry.
You remember Warren Harding?
One who's worse than Warren--thank god!--soon's departing.

Send her home; 'cause that chap, 'bama,
Won. Go home, back to Chappaqua.
She won't leave; she whines that life ain't fair.
Although she's beaten, she don't care.

Throw a bone her way so she will stop the noise;
She could cut Kevlar with that voice.
She will not go away;
She must have one more bray.

Clear out, mama, stall the drama;
You won't be pres, though you wanna.
Rabid fans shriek: "Don't dismiss me!"
Frankly, they're starting to look fit--i.e., hissy.

Days of dimwit now are waning;
I hope next we're not McCaining.
Day in late fall, lever presser:
Calmer man, Obama, would harm us the lesser.