Wack-jive bombast, worse than cons cast by small children.
Mindless screaming from mouths—lips move, meaning lies,
tripe and bombast, rife with hot gas—quite appalling.
Claptrap-mongers open traps and yap pap flies.

(Grotesque nonsense that this crew plies)

Lies a-blaring, talent only for made errors—
bullshit shtik that’s drivel-thick; just aural farts.
BS, rash, muttering, mindless yammer;
naught but hot air comes from up there
on the Hill; makes ya ill when they maunder
and squander gelt; I with they’d wander off, depart.

Brightest and the best, not in these parts

For bags of loot they are squirmin’; back-swive fat cats
“Conhole” them, and that’s where the quid pro quo starts.
Then they blow cats with dough, ’cause they’re tethered.
So they make there laws that ain’t fair.
It’s the norm, and the deal’s swag-strive Congrab.
Then comes the wack bombast. . .masters of gasbag arts.