His blithering dithering, his withering wit, 
leads me to the conclusion, Joe's full of sh*t.
His insipid grinning, his lost, vacant stare,
Joe tries to convince us he's so debonaire.
His cute little two-step, proves Joe's in good health,
his endearing nickname for Jill, his cute little milf.
Joe's the man of the hour, the fool of the year,
the fool in our faces, no one wants to hear.
His diction, his clarity, his gibbering rants,
his skill at manuevering with a load in his pants.
His shuffling, his stumbling, his bumbling around,
Joe's tripping, his falling, his faceplants in the ground.
Always with glad tidings, his messages lift,
Joe must be thinking of his mountains of grift.
His flights into anger, at the trip of a switch,
from Old Uncle Joe into a whiny-a*s bi*ch.
His long years of service, his hands in the till,
his communist agenda, subverting our will.
His thing with Obama, his career as a stooge,
his son in the bathtub, soaking in spooge.
Joe the entertainer, America's comical chief,
we the people are screaming for needed relief.
His theft of elections, his usurping of seats,
his living high on the hog, us sucking hind teat.
His pride in his legacy, his ego swelled head,
his hunger for power fills the world with dread.
Joe's slipped into darkness, in thrall of the devil,
we see it, we know it, my depictions on the level.
D.L. Crockett -- 10/20/23