Not I, not me, uh uh, not true,
I own no Sharpies in black nor blue,
I’m sure I’m right, the chart was clear,
Dorian’s path to Alabama’s near.
The media cries I made it up,
I drew the lines right on the map;
How dare they say such lies so mean,
My words are gold, my conscience clean.
These folks do whine, they rant and rave,
To score some points they sorely crave,
Yet all they do time and again,
So well reminds of a cackling hen.
If there’s an expert that’s so me,
No-one quite sees the things I see,
Wind direction that’s my hat,
Great golfers know precisely that.
And if the storm went up the coast,
That too should earn me one loud toast,
I channeled prayers from all around,
To have it miss that Rebel ground.
The South’s my turf, I like those folks,
A land of dreamers full of hopes,
I have their vote, undying love,
Hence why I gave this thing a shove.
Towards New York, that den of thieves,
Spreading untruths like falling leaves,
Let them delight in Natures wrath,
Rewarding me with one great laugh.