He’s quite far right, Ayn style,
Cracking smile, lacking guile.
Some see him as a blight;
Some think he’s shown the light.
As he talks, he don’t bellow.
He loves just the well-to-do; they’re swell.

This guy is Ryan, dough-trim dude,
Ryan, dough-trim ’tude.

His plan is so wrong; hands the non-prosperous bones,
Some bones from Ryan, Ryan, Ryan, Ryan.
If you do a name scan, you’ll find an anagram
Cached there in Ryan.

First, grab the “R,” then take it to
The end of “yan,” then you
Rearrange till you’re
Finished—need do no more
And view what has ensued.
What is it you see?
Ayn R.—that’s he:
Ayn clothed as dude, Ayn, closed-mind ’tude.

Paul now is gone, and from this morphing on
He will be Ayn, plyin’ lyin’ Ayn,
Yeah, Ayn Ryan: grotesque, skewed.