Oh, Mitty boy, the voters are a-calling From swing states east and west and even south The summer’s gone, and with it all excuses Tis you, not I whose taxes must come out.
So give them up while autumn is upon us Or keep them hid, it’s all the same to me Tis I’ll be here in sunshine or in shadow Oh, Mitty boy, oh, Mitty boy, I loathe you so.
And if you stall, and all your polls are falling If I’m still here, as surely I will be You’d best come clean as did your dear old daddy And show your cards, your money where it’s been.
And I’ll be here, your faithful honey badger To prod you on should arrogance prevail You'll keen and whine and point your fickle finger But Mitty boy, it’s either way a fail.
