Behind the podium,

nobody can tell if his tale is waggin’

as he tries to keep his Master’s jaw

from saggin’, this Mutt,

this hound with Washington Dog Rot

at the heart of his soul,

surely in pain, for how else

do you suggest his brain works,

when he can consider it O.K.

to suggest a chemical weapon

wasn’t used in Europe’s back yard

and that the bones this Mutt has now dug up

just don’t exist at all.

Come on Spicer, come on boy, roll over,

spread that Washington Dog Rot

all o’er the floor and I will smoke a corn cob pipe,

and when you do, oh Spicer boy,

it just gives me another reason

to feel the need to whip you

till you howl, Oh Spicer Boy,

your tale is not going down.

Ian D. Hall 2017