The Lame Duck

        THE LAME DUCK

 

The lame duck is a lonely fowl

Much treated to a kick or scowl.

He once was viewed with awe and dread

But now is called a bufflehead.

He still can quack with lordly clamor;

The noise is heard as katzenjammer.

All bright plumage turned to molt;

Hunters know he's shot his bolt.

A prey to every rat or louse

With feathered nest near his White House.

He dabbles with old-time religion

With many loons and lesser wigeon.

The jig is up, there's not a chancer

For this tired stale merganser.

Off he'll fly back to the pond

Where he hatched and where he spawned.

Migrating down south he'll be

Part of musty history.

And then he'll build, with stately waddle,

A library that's full of twaddle.

A lecture tour might be a thrill

But won't compare to Hillary's Bill.

And I suppose he'll write a book

As sure as Nixon was a crook.

The Chinese might say he was mock.

The Democrats might clean his clock.

His stimulus was mostly preen.

But still I'm sad he'll leave the scene.

His face was never all that loveler

Yet I shall miss old George the shoveler.

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