He stared at the teleprompter, he adjusted his tie.
He scanned the crowd uneasily he got ready to lie.
he was told he was honest, but he had his doubts.
Inside he knew they were lies he was ready to spout.
He licked his lips nervously, he was thinking of water.
He was fondly recalling showering with his daughter.
He thought of his son Beau, he couldn't recall his face.
He was killed in the big war in some obscure place.
He was starting to fidget, losing his train of thought.
He saw a young girl in the front row, she was really hot.
He leered and grinned at her, she reached for her mommy.
He wanted to sniff her hair telling her he wasn't a commie.
He heard cameras clicking, he came back to Earth.
 Wanting Hunter's medicine to restore his self-worth.
He heard Barack whispering, how he hated that voice.
If he could shake off Barack, he'd have cause to rejoice.
The teleprompter was loaded, so he started to read.
He noticed many eyes in the crowd were starting to bleed.
He messed up a few numbers, he couldn't pronounce words.
They both stuck to his tongue, like sugarcoated turds.
He started to panic, then he couldn't help but adlib.
 He didn't recall any documents his son Hunter had hid.
Hur was working for Trump, the report was trumped up.
Joe was mentally competent, everyone else was a schlup.
Feeling all better now, he pivoted and fell off the stage.
The crowd was laughing uproariously, he took great umbrage.
D.L. Crockett -- 2/16/24