Chicken John
 
Yes now we know how low they'll go,
These Johns who want to lead us.
Desiring to pander, they slickly slander
While contrived compassion they feed us.
She is 'Fair Game' that Cheney dame;
Yes, that's Miz Cahill's call.
So why feel shock at their sordid schlock,
Aren't they lawyers after all?
It's no surprise that these two guys
Are true artists at their easels;
Using words as paint they trickily taint,
Paired Picassos of sleaze, these weasels.
 
So no one's now a sacred cow,
Since the Liberals tossed the rules.
There is no blame they're all fair game
Go after the family jewels.
Get under their beds, inside their heads,
There's no limit on taking pelts.
Thus we've no shame in our dubious claim
John loves chickens in garter belts.
For that you see solves the mystery
To the question that so begs:
How Carvillian Kerry, who outted Mary,
Learned to lay such perfect eggs.
 
Russ Vaughn is the Poet Laureate of The American Thinker