If there you’re borne, you’ll spy in this rich city
what looks like spawn of the Third Reich and Disney.
Gray-turreted desert Temple ain’t pretty.
Like most Deseret culture, kinda kitschy.
This is just the stuff, the stuff of Mormon Mitty.

His father worked for American Motors;
no jerk, he charmed shares of Michigan voters.
His mother popped out four children, but any
more than two to replace themselves is too many.
Had more than enough. . .a bunch, then one more, Mitty.

He hitched a lass who’s born Ann Lois Davies. . .
bested Mitt’s mom at poppin’ out the babies.
She stopped at five, then stayed at home to raise ’em.
His forebears has plural wives, and they lays ’em.
One was not enough, in many-missus city.

He ventures East, to Mass., and then gets ready
to try to wrest the seat away from Teddy.
But Teddy’s worshipped by most o’ the people;
he worships underneath a Roman steeple.
So it’s just tough luck, out o’ luck is the Mitty.

So then he goes off to run the Olympics.
He runs for prez, but it’s McCain, not him picked.
McCain picks a far-north-state mate and the two run.
But most who vote scratch their pates and then those two shun,
and they dump the putz who’d gone nuts. What a pity.

Primary’s an experience that harrows;
buying the nod takes millions by the barrows.
The base at first gives to Mittster cold shoulder,
they now hope he’ll make Mr. O. roll over.
Because what they got, culled from nuts: “more” man Mitty.