Aw, the bagman's named William
Jefferson; he locked
Inside of his freezer bun-
dles of money. Are we shocked?
And Vitter, clown in DC,
A Palfrey patron, can't escape
His payin' for a tart.
I hope they convict each ape.
Oh mama, when will someone make amends
To me, stuck inside a mobile
With a FEMA crew as friends?

Well, lakes here give unallayed
Floods, like swift Pontchartrain in swells.
Speaking Cajun French, girls,
I notice, are très belle
I asked one for a massage
I realized when she talked
The parole "connard" means "asshole" 'n'
I'm a male foxed; I walked.
Zut alors! guess I oughta learn some French,
But I'm stuck inside a mobile
With a FEMA crew and stench.

"Moper," the guy calls me,
"Every day you, about pain, whine.
You are not in a male mode; men
Suck it up and say, 'All's fine.'"
I said, "Oh well, thanks, now I know that,
As my claws clambered crablike up his chest,
And my thrusts poked his eyelids,
Then punched the snigg'ring pest.
"Yo mama! Were you feelin' that, my friend?"
'cause I'd struck the guy's mandible;
He might never chew again.

Grandpa tried to speak
To those same French girls on the block.
He had no trouble talkin' about
Some acts that give us shock.
And then he was sexually nappin';
The old man has got soul--
He'd picked them up on Bourbon Street,
Then shot them full in holes.
"Oh, mamas!" he is squealin' as he spends,
And I'm stuck inside a mobile
While he's got females in bends.

Now some senators came down here
For the photo ops and fun.
I told 'em to stick it
Way up in their Washington.
You know they cannot be trusted--
Naught but a bunch of suckups,
As each takes his long tongue to stick it
Up into a lobbyist's dump truck.
No manna--their spiels lead us to dead ends;
Love to stick 'em in a mobile
With a FEMA crew as friends.

Now the mean preacher was so addled
When he said that our distress
Was revenge for sodomites
And others who weren't "blessed."
Those of reason were reprovin' him. . .
He was eclipsed and crossed to the other side.
When he got to Hades,
Satan said, "Get inside!"
Faux pastor, it is time to make amends,
Now you're stuck an' fried an' blow spiel
To a febrile crew of friends.

Now the rain had brought two scourges:
One was death, destruction;
Then, worse, was feckless Washington,
With their heads where there ain't no sun.
These guys are fools; they're missin'
Anything resembling minds.
Got a creep who can't say "nuclear";
On the Hill, a pen of swine.
Those mobsters steal my money and then spend
It while I am stuck with mo' bills
While they fete their fat-cat friends.

I rue the crew from FEMA,
Swindlers, punks, and drunk baboons
Empty talk. . .then take their fees--
Leechin' pack o' maniac goons.
And we say, "Aw, come on, now,
You blow, you're blowin' out dreck you talk,
And it's clear the dreck you talk odif'rously seeps
Just like hole runs unblocked.
Gross matter. You should wear buccal Depends. . .
Like they stuck a hind where blow spiel,
Spit; and stench streams from both ends.

Get my kicks on Canal Street
Where the neon signs all shine.
I fall down after drunken sprees;
To forget, I drink wine.
And here I sip so blatantly
In so-called city of vice
That cannot hold a candle to
Boggy burg with crew of lice.
Faux patter. They should wear buccal Depends.
I'm stuck hearin' the mals mots spiels
Of the Mephisto fiend's friends.