These here good times
call for a return to
them-there family
values that come from
a heap of in-breeding,
posh New England
prep schools, and a
right smartin' of
Grannie's rhum'tiz
med'cine (but only 'til
you're 40).
Why, nothin' could be finer'n great vittles and a good show!
Gather up the kinfolk y'all, grab a bag o' Pork Rinds and some o'
Grannie's finest possum gravy (fer dippin'). Then set yerselves
down fer a spell to see the whole Bush clan fixin' to head back to
DC and commence to reclaim what had oughta be rightfully
theirs.
You recollect that Poppy took such a likin' to the town that he
hunkered down there to be a double-naught spy. 'Bout that
time, the boy was learnin' his cipherin' and shootin' squirrels
tryin' to swim the Rio Grande. Well, Poppy left town totin'
nothing but a brand new fishing pole.
Now, the boy hankers to git back there and run off those
low-down, sidewindin' varmints squattin' in the White House.
First thing, he's gonna save us all from those horn-swagglin'
Revenuers a-taxin' the gas for Jethro's truck - the Original Sport Utility Vee-Hickle.