Listen, my children, and hear this, the tale
Of how a President ends up in jail.
by Bill Ferguson
As World War Three drew near and nearer on,
In quiet, sleepless fear lay Washington.
But at the White House, they were getting’ down,
Obama, and his fawning guests, renowned
For monetary wealth, or athletic deed,
Or his fav’rite tunes, his ego here to feed.
Hollywood starlets, and rockers demented,
The famous and shameless were here represented.
The bailout-fat bankers with rented sluts,
Politicos smiling, while hating his guts,
The dutiful officers wanted elsewhere;
You know that Beyoncé and Oprah were there!
Who tolls the tax dollars spent on this spread?
In honor of Barack, our State of Head.
As the dancing got dirty, the guests more drunk,
Obama said “Val, this is a slam dunk!”
But some time, between twelve thirty and one,
The First lady noticed her husband was gone.
“Where did he go,” she thought, “what kind of whim?”
None of her staffers could even find him.
He wouldn’t be watching his favorite show,
It’s always on Netflix or HBO.
Was he drinking Cristal, where Jay Z wouldn’t see?
Shooting hoops with Lebron? “Oh, where could he be!”
Is he sneaking a drag off of God knows what?
Was he tempted by a forbidden butt?
“Oh, Hell no!” she thought, “he knows it ain’t healthy
If he’s off with that Danish bitch takin’ a selfie!”
She glared, when he, grinning and flushed, reappeared,
But she shrugged, and said “Oh.” when he said in her ear:
“I had to go to the Situation Room,
Y’know, to deal a little death and doom.”
And all saw how happy, no, giddy, no, high
Obama glowed with a slightly manic eye.
It wasn’t the best time, but just then did decide
A freshman congressman , to take Barack aside.
The rep was quite nervous, did hem and did haw,
“Could you, please, check with the Hill, Sir, before changing the law?”
And, then, as the band had just stopped for a break,
Obama the congressman to task did take:
“I am Commander-in-Chief, son,who are you?
I just droned somebody, d’you want some, too?
I do what I want, what I think fittin’,
Although, on occasion, I do consult Britain.
I’ll order surveillance, on earth and in sky,
‘Cause I am the President. Who decides? I!
I’ll give the banks bailouts, enforce the bail-ins,
Raise minimum wages by five or ten cents.
I’ll appoint whom I want, while you’re out for a snack,
If I think I want to, I’ll launch an attack.
They call it Obamacare, don’t know if you saw.
You may try to legislate, I am the law!
An old piece of parchment can’t tell me what to do,
So, to paraphrase Victoria, F*** YOU, TOO!”
Perhaps it was because he’d been so proud
In his euphoria, and loud;
Perhaps because the band had taken five,
Perhaps a hidden microphone was live.
It seemed that the room had gotten smaller,
Ev’ryone heard this Constitutional scholar.
And then, a spectral hand appeared, to scrawl
A flaming script upon the ballroom wall.
“Thou shalt be made to answer for the dead !
Many, Many! Take a hike, you farthead!”
The crowd beheld Obama, first, in terror’s grip,
But then, saw Chaplin’s moustache on his lip.
(A revelation? They know it was always there.
Before however, they didn’t want to care)
They, nervous, laughing, left him, unbefriended,
And thus did exit, and the party ended.
Perhaps unnecessary to relate,
The details of Barack Obama’s fate:
No longer a herd of fearful mutton,
Taking his finger off Armageddon’s button,
Before more Constitutional breaches,
At last the tardy Congress him Impeaches.
And after cellmates tire of his venting,
Perhaps, remembering and repenting,
Perhaps, while he his memoirs is a-scribbling,
Or on the prison blacktop is a-dribbling,
He’ll think unto himself, that it was dumb,
To challenge God to a game of one-on-one
(and here is Bill reading it even better)