The guy don’t think and don’t know much;
His confidant, though, served as his crutch.
One man wanted deals done; the other’s brain was fried;
One man had his mind made up; other couldn’t decide.
Back then when the time had come to choose,
One man was out of it; the other lit the fuse.

The guy did drink, the total much,
But kicked the lush life and then picked a new crutch.
He was rarely certain; his buddy always sure—
Each time he was simp’rin’, his buddy, not demure.
Back then when the time had come to choose,
One man had the answers, the other lacked in clues.
Those were bad times, such very bad times:
Dick’ decisions.

The guy don’t think, so here we are:
In a hole that was dug down real far.
Getting out, not easy; recovery is hard,
So we’ll have to do our best. . .hoisted on his petard.
Back then when the time had come to choose,
One man was out of it—from swigging too much booze?
Those were bad times, such very bad times:
Those were sad times, such very sad times:
Dick’ decisions.
These are bad times, such very bad times:
These are sad times, such very sad times:
We sadly repine.

A guy supplies the ghost-write touch
To ply the lies—quantity is “much.”
The cant’s surreal; there’s Wonderland inside
The covers of this send-up of the truth that’s Kafkafied.
But the title’s wrong; he should have used
One that might have led to let him be excused.
So the title he should rewrite’ll
Be a title that is less shite-full:
“Dick Decisions.”