Their gluteus maximus bears a sore,

A festering furuncle named Al Gore.

A six year old deep down infection,

Contagion caused by close election.

Party doctors can't decide just what,

Will cure this boil upon their butt,

Knowing only that it pains their tush,

A fearsome bug, georgicoccus bush.

In political pain they lose their touch,

To reason well or think too much;

Their pain is throbbing every nerve,

Leaving unto them no will to serve,

To support their nation and its needs,

They care not that their nation bleeds.

Political pus in a suppurant sore,

Has made them worthless anymore.

They have no leaders, have no class;

Just fools who spool and show their ass.

Who endlessly just spin and spin,

Proclaiming that we cannot win.

With traitorous, foul and fetid breath,

Increase our losses, bring more death;

And all because they cannot heal,

The Sore of Gore they'll always feel.

Russ Vaughn is the Poet Laureate of The American Thinker