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