Tuesday morning at 10 o’clock on his final day,
Quietly closing his office door,
Feeling regrets that he can’t stay four more,
He goes out there to the foyer, pond’ring his legacy.
SS men turning the front door key,
He steps outside. We are free.

He… (he gave it eight bleeping years)
Is going… (bungled it eight bleeping years)
Home… (he held the office oil money did buy)
He’s going home after governing stoned
(Buh-bye) for the last eight years.

Laura exits her bedroom clutching her travel bag,
Gets on her cell phone with Jen and Barb,
Says, “We’ll FedEx you the rest of your garb.”
She goes down, and says to her husband, “Honey, the love is gone.
Why do they hate you so veh’mently?
Can you explain this to me?”

He… (he only cared for the rich)
Is going… (changed all these laws for the rich)
Home… (we’ll struggle hard from now on to survive)
He’s going home after bungling along
(Buh-bye) for the last eight years.

Tuesday noontime at 12 o’clock at the swearing in,
Mill-i-ons cheer the election we made:
Hail the new chief in the motorcade!

We… (what did Bush do that’s so wrong?)
Are feeling… (say, did he know it was wrong?)
Hope… (hope is the only thing left—milked us dry!)
New sense of pride that was rotted and dried
(Buh-bye) for the past eight years!

He’s going home!
(Buh-bye!)