Mumbling, rambling, wizened and old
This sorry old man leaves me angry and cold.
How such a fool made it this far
Must be the luck of some weird Irish star.

Now I'm expected to play fair and smile,
But against this buffoon that really does rile
Each bone in my body from morning to night,
With his cocky demeanor and memory plight.

Protected and pampered by the media and stars,
He speaks from his basement and meets from parked cars,
Trading favors for votes, a pattern he's shown
And to pressure he’ll cave, for this he is known.

No wonder the Marxists all love him so much,
What better for President, one so out of touch,
The country in ruins but what will he care,
When all he can do is the 90 yards stare.

But all said and done I relish the chance
To prove once again how well I can dance;
And in the great words of my hero Ali,
I'll float like a butterfly and sting like a bee.