Sung to the tune of The Beverly Hillbillies with apologies to Flatt & Scruggs:
Come and listen to my story ’bout a boy named Bush.
His IQ was zero and his head was up his tush.
He drank like a fish while he drove a car about.
But that didn’t matter ‘cuz his daddy bailed him out.
DUI, that is.
Well, the first thing you know little Georgie goes to Yale.
He can’t spell his name but they never let him fail.
He spends all his time hangin’ out with student folk.
And that’s when he learns how to snort a line of coke.
Blow, that is.
The next thing you know there’s a war in Vietnam.
Kin folks say, “George, stay at home with Mom.”
Let the common folks get maimed and scarred.
We’ll buy you up a spot in the Texas National Guard.
Cush, that is.
Twenty years later George gets a little bored.
He trades in the booze, says that Jesus is his Lord.
He says, “Now the White House is the place I wanna be.”
So he called his daddy’s friends and they called the GOP.
Gun owners, that is.
Come November 7, the election ran late.
Kin folks said “Jeb, give the boy your state!”
“Don’t let the colored folks get near the polls.”
So they put up barricades so they couldn’t punch their holes.
Chads, that is.
Before the votes were counted the five Supremes stepped in.
Told all the voters “Hey, we want our George to win.”
“Stop counting votes!” was their solemn invocation.
And that’s how little Georgie finally got his coronation.
Rigged, that is.
No moral authority.
Y’all come vote now.
This came from a friend of my Faithful Correspondent. Where the friend got it I have no idea. Or so she says.