For election, I'm told, is running a Kennedy,
Quite unheard in the anchorman's melody,
Where the race is between but Joe B. and Don,
And maybe ol' Nikki with her dogma clip-on,
But poor RFK Jr. gets the shortest of shrifts,
No up-close-and-personal, no kind network gifts.
.
Which seems a poor way to treat a strong party,
But this election does smelleth quite farty,
'Cause Don is, well, Don, and no change is likely,
And might end up in some prison unsightly,
To bellow his opinions out to the streets,
Where followers turn them fast into tweets.
.
And then there's old Joe, ever older and Joe-er,
Eyes far and cloudy, his step ever slower.
Though the media claim he's fine, calm and bright,
It's a ghastly stab at a public gaslight,
Telling me that what I can see with my eyes
Is the lighting, a bad day, an unfair surmise.
.
Between Don and Joe walks this man who provokes,
And his uncle and dad too often invokes,
Claiming the mantle of a black-and-white time,
When America enjoyed some reason and rhyme.
It gets a bit tawdry with such overuse,
But having no party he resorts to this juice.
.
Odd how that works in the demographic way,
Since under-forties scarce know JFK,
A name long lost in their timeline's weeds,
Yet the strange thing is that's just where Bob leads,
Though for the bellied and sage he's an unknown,
Or mistrusted, dismissed, a seed poorly sown.
.
Clever, Bob positions himself as alternative,
A "uniter," he says, not lib or conservative,
For folks who can't vote either Don or The Ghost,
But someone not sued who can cut his own toast.
So I think come October here's the smart word:
It's Bob versus Don, with Joe a dist' third.
