Here's the once-fat man, and he wrote a book
About his year in White House, chock-full of crooks.
They hate that there's no-vet, and so they all jeer:
"It's a hatchet job!"
They don't want to hear
This pay-back-wacks writer,
Deranged-hacks slighter.

It's a hurty story 'bout a dirty clan
Whose f**kups are rife, with the dumbest man:
The son's a jerkoff; unlike Daddy, failed
At every job aspect. . .worse than Quayled.
His gray matter slighter
Quayle's so much brighter.

Gray matter's slighter. . . .

It's all clowns, no sages, in this brain-dead crew.
Scotty's writing chore: observe how they screw
up. "He's got it wrong!" burps Rove, a vile-stench pile.
But it's all wrote down and redaction-free
From pay-back-wacks writer,
Deranged-hacks slighter.

"Who cares if they like it?" asks Scott, his smile bright.
It'll make him millions. . .his agent's delight.
I'll bet the Veep burns it. . .not likely to cheer.
Scotty's screed'll rake 'em over the coals; he's a
Pay-back-wacks writer,
Pay-back-hacks writer.

Pay-back-hacks writer,
Pay-back-wacks slighter.
Pay's-alright writer,
Agent delighter. . . .