It appears to me this Ronnie feller,
Thinks he might be a new Old Yeller,
Fearless defender of all that's good,
Chasing skunks out of our neighborhood.
But some observers of this hound,
Believe he should be in the pound.
That telltale frothing round his muzzle,
To those who know him is no puzzle.
This dog's deranged and quick to bite,
But he seldom ever wins a fight;
A surly cur who snaps and growls,
Whose bite's less painful than his howls.
Beware you masters he drools to please,
This mangy mutt will give you fleas.
Jump in his pen where eggs are hatching,
And you Washington Dems will all be scratching.
But for the moment he's a happy hound,
With all the publicity that he's found.
Why, since the 60's it hasn't been this groovy,
Just like Old Yeller he's got his own movie.
But fame is fleeting, and will be more so still,
For a Fido who feasts on ripe road kill.
And while it's true every dog has his day,
My money's on the pit bull, Tom DeLay.
Russ Vaughn is the Poet Laureate of The American Thinker