Ah, look at all of the press people.
Ah, look at stony-faced press people.

McClellan, pygmy, dishes out lies,
His boss smirks, and the vetting begins. . .
Living in spin.

Which way's the wind blow?
Tries to save face though his fibs
Marred by those he abhors.
"F*cking press corps!

All of those press people,
Where do they all come from?
All those blogging creeps'll
Uncover what we've done!"

Fatboy McClellan, writhing and turds
Start to form in his shorts and then smear.
He quakes in fear.
Look at him jerking, smarminess shocked
From his system, now he's really scared. . .
Not well prepared

For all those press people.
His web has come undone.
Can't stall those press people;
They've got him on the run.

McClellan, pygmy, cries from his perch
As they bury each of his lame claims. . .
End of the game.

Fartboy! Mards! Smell 'em!
Wiping, de facto, his ass with his pants;
This is grave!
But he can't lave.

He's bawling and weeping,
But otherwise he's mum.
The appalling seepage,
Still running from his bum.