So there's snow in the White House, isn't that groovy.
It sounds like the plot, of some crappy Hollywierd movie.
Whose cocaine could it possibly be, nobody knows.
But look there goes Hunter, furiously scratching his nose.
His mouth going a mile a minute, his hands are a blur.
Who elses coke could it be, he's the coke connoisseur. 
He thinks he's untouchable, while he's all touchy-feely.
He's a sick human being, he's the worst kind of creepy.
Jill knows what he's doing, snorting lines off his hand.
Behind her in the corner, his scruples be damned.
Joe doesn't know what's going on, he's doped up himself.
On some kind of drug cocktail, him and Hunter are filth.
Joe drags Hunter with him, wherever the ship of state goes.
Still Hunter gets high every day, right under Joe's nose.
It's a national disgrace,  the whitehouse is a crackhouse.
How can Jill handle it, she must be constantly soused.
The mystery could be easily solved, Hunter needs a UA.
Or run dope sniffing dogs through the place every day.
American's aren't stupid, it's obvious what's going on.
Hunter parties down in the pad from dusk until dawn.
His coke is stashed everywhere, every nook and cranny.
He probably smuggles it in, keistered way up his fanny.
Does Hunter go out alone when he needs to buy drugs.
Or is there someone on the staff, a man with fake jugs.
It's starting to look like, the whole crews on a prolonged trip.
Like sanity has given the whole Biden family the slip.
What of Hunter's plea deal, isn't he supposed to stay clean.
I guess wit the DOJ in daddy's pocket, it don't mean a thing.
Party hearty Hunter, go ahead, let the good times roll.
Your dad's hands are tied, looks like you own his soul.
D.L. Crockett -- 7/10/23