Sung to the tune of the Beverly Hillbillies
Come and listen to my story 'bout a boy name Bush.
His IQ was zero and his head was up his tush.
He drank like a fish while he drove all about.
But that didn't matter 'cuz his daddy bailed him out.
DUI, that is. Criminal record. Cover-up.
Well, the first thing you know little Georgie goes to Yale.
He can't spell his name but they never let him fail.
He spends all his time hangin' out with student folk.
And that's when he learns how to snort a line of coke.
Blow, that is. White gold. Nose candy.
The next thing you know there's a war in Vietnam.
Kinfolks say, "George, stay at home with Mom.
Let the common people get maimed and scarred.
We'll buy you a spot in the Texas Air Guard."
Cushy, that is. Country clubs. Nose candy.
Twenty years later George gets a little bored.
He trades in the booze, says that Jesus is his Lord.
He said, "Now the White House is the place I wanna be."
So he called his daddy's friends and they called the GOP.
Gun owners, that is. Falwell. Jesse Helms.
Come November 7, the election ran late.
Kin folks said "Jeb, give the boy your state!"
Don't let those colored folks get into the polls."
So they put up barricades so they couldn't punch their holes.
Chads, that is. Duval County. Miami-Dade.
Before the votes were counted five Supremes stepped in.
Told all the voters "Hey, we want George to win."
"Stop counting votes!" was their solemn invocation.
And that's how George finally got his coronation.
Rigged, that is. Illegitimate. No moral authority.
Y'all come vote now. Ya hear?
Paid for by the Katherine Harris Foundation for Corrective Plastic Surgery.