Down in the weeds where snakes like to slither.
Joe Biden shuffles along his mind in a dither.
Looking for divine inspiration, Joe hears only Barack.
Or his son Hunter calling, always wanting more crack.
Joe hears Obama in one ear, Hunter in the other.
Come night he lays in his crib, crying for his mother.
Joe feels abandoned, his life has gone out of control.
He rues the long ago day he sold Obama his soul.
He feels used like some puppet, someones useful fool.
Words put in his mouth more of the communist gruel. 
The world's most powerful man, can't wipe his own ass.
Since he's been president, nothing good's come to pass.
He was never the big guy, just a stooge for Barack.
He knew Obama was ready to stick a knife in his back.
He felt just like a lamb sheepishly being led to the slaughter.
 It might have been a warning, the attack on his daughter.
He needed someone to talk to, he needed God's ear.
He had plenty of secrets that someone should hear.
 Barack wouldn't kill him if he kept acting braindead.
If he kept spewing the crap obama put in his head.
He felt the noose tightening around his scrawny neck.
Every day, every minute, he feared the oncoming wreck.
Both Jill and Hunter said he should take his money and run.
Sometimes he thought he should confess the evil he's done.
But Barack had eyes everywhere, knowing Joe's every move.
He'd hang Joe's a*s out to die like a painting in the Louvre.
For now he'd keep up the charade, hoping no one caught on.
But his demise felt much closer with each breaking dawn.
He'd been rode hard by Obama, then put away wet.
Recieving daily reminders he was in Barack's debt.
Joe worked up his courage, he was almost ready to fight.
He decided to sleep on it for one more tortured night.
D.L. Crockett -- 11/23/23