Sheep’s clothing looks good on you
Hiding your scrawny cage of bone
Suffering the hollowed out words
You ricochet off those ears of stone!
You've a disease! You are bushlemic!
Regurgitated words of blood and flesh
Howling to your nationalistic stupor
Writhing through constitutional genuflect!
It’s your eyes, however, that give you away
Casting about, an empty ship in the Dead Sea
Scanning `round for something smart to say
As your disease takes hold your constituency
Sheep’s clothing… Oh! It looks good on you
Shadowing the truth now locked out of sight
Masking your hubris and all your crimes, too
Bushlemia’s only antedote- The Bill of Rights!
Bushes Death Squads