Good Witches’ Song

Trouble, trouble, toils on bouble.
End the drama, send Obama
Flying, like a popping bubble.

ObamaCare, a thing of air,
Will sting yet like an adder;
Demolish it, and in a fit
Will he be smiling madder.

Deny his every wish and whim
And all will see the soul of him—
A tiny soul that’s thin and grim,
Begetting but a gnatty hymn—

A tiny buzz that one may swat
To make the teeny buzzing not,
Then leave the mite-y bug alone
So he can feast him to the bone.

Trouble, trouble, toils on treble.
End the drama, send Obama
Flying, to his inner devil!

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