Joe went down to Georgia, he can't remember when.
Thinking he'd show Trump, he's no chump,
he claimed,  he's the best that's ever been.
He picked his nose, he struck a pose,
 flashing his stupid grin.
He passed some gas, he scratched his a*s,
he regaled the crowd with spin.

He sang the same old song, he'd done nothing wrong,
he was as pure as driven snow.
The applause was great, the clap would not abate,
he could still put on a show.
When the camera panned, it wasn't planned
there was no one there to cheer.
perhaps one or two, besides the camera crew,
the clearing was quite clear.

He rambled on and on, like his mind was gone,
of pools and boys and golden leg hair.
He spoke of this and that, a good demonrat,
Jill wished she wasn't there.
Jill Biden sneered, the camera crew jeered,
 a buzzard landed on Joe's head.
 A sight to behold, the buzzard was bold,
it took a big old crap and fled.

Joe was mortified, he wished he'd died,
Joe and Jill quickly bailed.
They were loudly grumbling, their aspirations tumbling,
back to the basement they both sailed.
The MSM stepped in, they got Joe's back again.
They did what they do, they lied.
No one was deceived, no one believed,
that Joe was not a chump.
Thinking nevermore, Jill slammed the door,
and went out to vote for Trump.

D.L. CROCKETT 10/29/2020