Doing his thing, Bern, Bern Bern.
Crowds he is pleasing, Bern, Bern, Bern,
but his time as the Hill’s scourge will be ending.

His time will be shorn; his hair will still fly;
she of the pantsuit’s gonna reap
more delegates when starts the deal,
though she might say to him: “Be veep.”

Doing his thing, Bern, Bern Bern.
Crowds he is pleasing, Bern, Bern, Bern,
and his time as Wall Street’s scourge is never-ending.

Movement he built, but it will break down;
ain’t got a chance; it’s no new morn.
The man is just too one-note,
to which he is completely tethered.

Doing his thing, Bern, Bern Bern.
Crowds he is pleasing, Bern, Bern, Bern.
He has lots of dough to burn, and he is spending.

The guy is loved by a substrate
of folks who roar when he repeats
his rote rap in the race,
but his presence will be effacing.

Doing his thing, Bern, Bern Bern.
Down convention eve: spurn, spurn, spurn.
Just like some others, his dirge will be impending.

Some time he gains, but he will lose;
campaign will end; he’ll leave the show.
All of the love cannot abate
rival’s two-piece ensemble—that’s his fate.