Biden was feeling surrounded, the hounds closing in.
Angry scowls were replacing his pleasant rictis-like grin.
Good old Uncle Joe, America's lunch bucket hero.
Was on the verge of becoming an American Nero.
He wanted to burn the place down, set the world on fire.
Every day he was losing more of his ballyhooed choir.
Thoughts of vengeance now filled his once empty head.
His grip on reality loosened as his remaining sanity fled.
He shuffled in smaller circles like a slow spinning top.
As his destiny trapped him, the charade finally stopped.
He found himself caught in a quandary, he couldn't resolve.
He fell back on denial, claiming he was never involved.
The proof's in the pudding, he recalled mom used to say.
If he didn't fess up and resign, they'd come take him away.
You best decide quickly Barack whispered in Joe's inner ear.
You best be remembering who calls the shots here.
His lagacy shattered, with his house of cards crumbling.
He'd mucked up everything with his fumbling and bumbling.
He resigned in disgrace, hoping to rest on his laurels.
They had disappeared into oblivion, just like his morals.
He crawled home to rehobeth, burned his butt on the beach.
A perfect retirement for America's bloodsucking leech.
D.L. Crockett -- 12/7/23