THE GREAT MUCKY MUCK was down on his luck

Besides just being a jerk and a schmuck

Besides wearing a poor deceased cat on his head

Besides being stupid and mostly brain-dead

No, these were all problems of fairly long standing,

Part of his schtick and part of his branding,

Part of what made him so doggoned adorable

To all of his cult, the lost and deplorable.

But now things were worse, so awful and bad

The awfulest luck the Muck’s ever had.

Seventy-eight, count ‘em, counts charged and indicted,

He was hounded and hunted, besmirched and benighted,

What? Couldn’t a guy even lie anymore?

A sore loser be sorer than ever before?

Couldn’t you start just one little riot?

Sell out the country, if people will buy it?

Can’t a guy try just to steal an election?

Do you have to stand still for defeat and rejection?

And now Jack Blanking Smith comes along, pure and clean

To take the poor Muck to the jailhouse, I mean

How is that right and how is that fair?

Will there even be mirrors, and what will he wear?

All just for talking, for words that he spoke.

What a hoax, what a scam, what a sad, stupid joke.

Like telling a bank clerk, “Hand over the money.”

If you don’t get the dough, it’s only a funny.

It ain’t no big deal, and it’s not fair to the Muck

To kick a poor guy when he’s down on his luck.