. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
In a township, in a county,
Diggin' for every odd vote
Was a rooky sans credentials
And the audacity to hope.
Oh that rooky, oh that rooky,
Oh that heavy-weight-playin' guy,
Thought and thinks he's fit to be president!
Dreadful sorry, no sale! No buy!
Light he is, light as a feather,
Feet won't fill a page boy's shoes,
Has his talkses with old foxes,
Talks at the "Mercan" people on... and on and on.
Drives he always in the middle,
Turns to the right are only faked,
Pleasin' 'n appeasin' to left-wingers,
His fiddlin' with the middle is half-baked.
Chicago's where he made his mark
as a hack backer of Red Karl Marx.
Compared with Gummo, Zeppo, Groucho,
A dinky pink, he gets low marks.
Brrrack Obama is for CHANGE, yes,
Maam, yes, sir, for change that's REAL!
All too true, but one thing's for certain—
Short change's all he'll ever deal.
Barack Hussein Obama's Black,
He's got pizzazz and that's a fact!
But just to dodge racist aspersions
Voters swallowed the callow young black's act.
Oh, you daring, oh, you daring,
Oh, you daring young greenhorn,
Back off, Barrrack Hussein Obama,
No oak—an audacious bodacious Acorn!
Well, he made it, and the make's on us!
Barack's got our backs against the wall.
What a bummer, he's got us bummed out!
No! "Obomba's bombed us out" is the call.
Music: My Darling Clementine
Words: Wendell H. Hall
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