It’s A Sham

That fella who’s selling you foam-filled sleep cushions
came into my office with ideas for pushin’;
a last-gasp attempt to hold on to my office.
(He doesn’t sell rocking chairs – that’s ‘cause he’s off his.)

A photo of notes he held, partly obscured,
listed talking points he had just made. He assured
me the fact I trounced Biden was true – no debating.
(He’s full of what comes out when you’re defecating.)

He said if I shuffled some people around
they’d dig up many Trump votes, all yet to be found.
The results announced had at least one tragic flaw –
and if that doesn’t work, let’s declare martial law.

I really dig Mike – like me, he’s often sued,
and the products we hawk have been poorly reviewed.
But at this point it seems everyone’s had enough; it
means: just like his pillows, perhaps Mike should stuff it.

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