A Baboon’s Song

It’s been a long time
a good line you’ve sent
just send out a rhyme
or simply repent

It’s twelve minutes past eight
on a Sunday afternoon
I expect you’ll create
lies for your baboon

As the sun slowly dies
and the darkness nears
I reminisce in lies
you’ve told through the years

So here I sit waiting
so strong and so brave
to read all the hating
from a fool and a knave

Yes somewhere in distance
hanging from a lib tree
a baboon sings assistance
while hating us free

He’s a toy sock baboon
with a soul full of stains
crying the hate tune
without any brains

He looks like a chimp
and acts like a whore
sounding as a pimp
when libs ask for more

Imprisoned by his hate
and his radical past
Obama’s dream fate
in November dashed

Yes somewhere in distance
hate-filled to the bone
he’ll get the real chance
to lie all alone

The Baboon's Hurrah

The days are long in Washita
Truth they’ll never learn
One lie a minute is their law
Results are not their concern

The hate rolled from their lips
They feared their words were wrong
Though they read from liberal scripts
As the truth played like a song

The libs were hoarse from cheering
As the baboon stood up tall
Today he announced he’d be trying
To become the president for all

The lies are deep in Washita
Truth is just ignored
They shout aloud “hurrah”
As the baboon is just adored

For he is a fiery spokesman
To that ugly liberal throng
Can’t wait to hear the baboon’s plan
On changing all that’s wrong

For here is a man among boys
Cast in a savior’s mold
And the greatness of his noise
Brings cheers from young and old

He’s blessed with a monkey’s face
And a mind like cheddar cheese
He hates the white man’s race
As he smiles at them to please

Young baboon has the power
To rouse the crowded stand
And there’s magic this very hour
If you pay him twenty grand

Al Gore has already sprinted
To touch the baboon’s hand
And Hillary has relented
To let him take the stand

We watch as he goes parading
We wait and our eyes are dim
For we see nothing exciting
Except the future now looks grim

A fool is born each day
And in every afternoon
But all the fools are on display
In the stands of this baboon