THE GREAT MUCKY MUCK said he still wasn’t through.
Not after his lynch mob, his riot, his coup.
It wasn’t enough–he still needed more,
For the crowd to still love him, to chant, to adore.
The fact that there wasn’t one brain in the throng
Was no sort of problem, it made him feel strong!
What brains had once been there had turned into mush
Along with their judgement and morals and such.
So the Muck made his plans, and he plotted and schemed
And at night in his jammies, he wished and he dreamed
Of big, giant rallies, where like Adolf he’d stride
Across the great stage, with such joy and such pride.
And he’d shout and make fists with his poor, tiny hands
And tell the whole world of his marvelous plans,
Of which there were none, except fleecing his flock,
And whacking his foes with a rock in a sock.
With a rock-whocky sock he would whack them and smite them
And if any were left he would haul off and bite them.
He couldn’t be stopped, he would never give in,
He would just keep on going, he’d win, win, Win, WIN!
And the gazillion court cases (all phony, you know)
And the stupid House Hearings (they barf and they blow)
And the judges and lawyers and RINO’s and losers
And the witnesses, traitors and whack-job accusers,
He would wear them all down, he’d deny and delay.
He’d threaten and scare them, he knew every play.
He’d done it for years, and he’d never been caught.
Everyone could be frightened, everyone could be bought.
But then as his head hit the pillow one night,
With a terrible start and a horrible fright,
He remembered Miss Liz, his implacable foe–
She would not let him off, she would not let him go.
She’d rap his small knuckles, grab him up by the ear,
And drag him up front where the kids would all jeer.
All his big, Mucky plans could still go up in smoke,
If the Muck was exposed… as a sad, boring joke.