He keeps sayin’ he’ll do something for us,
But think back to Pudge in Congress:
He was messin’ up and then got a dressin’
Down for ethics meltdown; we want him as prez?!

Seems Newt is made for squawkin’;
That’s what he’s gonna do
Till Tampa day, seems Newt is gonna squawk all over you.

He keeps vyin’ even though Mitt is ruthless,
And both are truthless, engaged in their slugfest.
(And if we’re Newtless, he’ll see, it’s a losefest.)
Newt is shameless, grandiose ’cause he’s blameless—
All he says is right. . .House won’t be White, I’ll guess.

Please, Newt, refrain from squawkin’!
Your blather makes me rue.
Till Tampa Day, I’m guessin’ Newt will squawk until he’s blue.

Newt keeps brayin’ though his numbers are frayin’.
What is he drinkin’? When is he gonna learn, that
Compared to Übermensch, he’s far from matchless,* yeah!
But it’s all he knows—that myth in his head churns.

Please, Newt, refrain from squawkin’!
Your blather makes me rue.
On Tampa Day, I’m hopin’ Newt will grok that he is through.

I am beggin’, Newt, stop squawkin’!!!!!!!!!!!

[fade on stentorian horseshit]


*From the old joke: “Got a match?” “Not since Superman died.”