They said he'd stop his lying,
they'd be wary of his deceit,
no longer would he'd be flying
by his party's pants' plush seat.

no more would he transmogrify
the figures and dry fact,
no more the wink and smile sly
buffoon and circus act

he'd abide by their critique
while changing his technique,
his approach would be bespoke,
never again his promises broke

so they'd have you all believe
their gargantuan claims
lips honeyed 'n cloying thieve
as his lackeys play his game

Does a leopard change his spots?
Or a dalmatian his black dots?
Have you ever seen pigs fly?
Is the moon a custard pie?

Does Winter follow Spring?
Can the tone-deaf learn to sing?
Can one run before one walks?
Ask a question before one talks?

Does the sun shine at night
Or the moon midst bright sunlight?
Can we move back in time?
Ascend Everest without a climb?

With some, deceit is nature,
their hyperbole and big talk,
in their spiel o' legislature,
in their manner and their walk

and as they breathe their last in dying,
as they writhe and grasp the nebula,
they'll be holding firm to lying,
till stone[d] silent in their sepulchre.

And as they ride their spirit's back
still they'll be the same ol' hack,
till at last they will atone
the public's groan and broken bone.