Skate Free, Freight-Free; or, '45 in 24: another excerpt from "The Posthumous Papers of the Wigg'd Pig Club"

     Sung (and it's best rendered when sung) 

     to the tune of "My Daddy Lies -- Over and Over." 

"I'm running to stay out of prison. 

I'm running to steer clear of jail.
More evidence, recently risen, 

I hope to convict me will fail.

"I'm running to side-step the slammer. 

I'm running to ward off the nick.
I'm no way the nail; I'm the hammer! 

(At worst, I'll get pardon'd, like Dick.)

"Skate free, freight-free: 

Won't somebody help me skate free, freight-free...?
Skate free, freight-free: 

Send C-notes to help me skate free.

"I'm running to limit my lockup. 

I'm running to by-pass the brig.
This whole rigmarole's been a cockup: 

I never had need of this gig.

"I'm running to hold off the hoosegow. 

I'm running to fend off the joint.

Is the DJ's Smith wielding a noose now...? 

I'm guilty...but that's not the point.

"Skate free... (etc. as above)

"I'm running to outwit conviction. 

(Once POTUS, I'll pardon myself.)

I'm running to counter the fiction 

that my wealth comes from ill-gotten pelf.

"I run to short-circuit the big house. 

I run to stay out of the clink.

And until I'm as dead as a dormouse, 

I'll not be the first bloke to blink.

"Skate free..." (etc. as above)

Anticipatory R.I.P.: an excerpt from "The Posthumous Papers of the Wigg'd Pig Club"

     Note the stanzaic scheme, where the first numeral indicates the number of stresses in a line and the second the number of syllables, which number varies depending on the presence of upbeats and masculine or feminine endings; the letters, of course, represent discreet rhymes:

     3/5-6 A   3/6-7 B   3/5-6 A   4/7-8 C   4/7-8 C   3/6-7 B

Donald Drumpf's dropp'd dead!

(I love alliteration!)
Donald made his bed;
grand jurors made him lie in it.
He's through -- that losin,' lyin' shit.
Begin our celebration!

Donald Drumpf's deceased!
We've "renaissance"'d our nation.
Don's coif three Cor-Bons creased,
restyling Donald's swiney puss.
Sieg heil, you wasted, whiney wuss.
All cured's our constipation.

Donald's bit the dust!

(And finalized frustration.)

Mourn him if you must;

keen his soul (as if he'd got one).

Billionaire...? Seems Don was not one.

Curb your titillation!

Donald's kick'd the bucket!

What halted hesitation...?

Perhaps his "WTF! It

appears I'll not steer clear of jail

nor wife nor kids won't go my bail...

What's left...? Annihilation!"