When thinking now of poor Chris Christie, My heart goes out. My eyes grow misty. The White House door to him was shut, ’Twas said, unless he lost that gut. So bariatric work was done. He dropped some weight—though not a ton, Enough at least so he could chase That White House dream. He’s in the race. But he’s got problems in his state, And Bridgegate came to demonstrate That some of Christie’s straight-talk luster Was based on just a bully’s bluster. So now, despite his smaller tum, He’s near the bottom of the scrum. What must, I’m thinking, make him frown Is all the food that he turned down— The sausage pizzas he rejected So, slimmer, he could be elected, The hamburgers he could have bought But didn’t. Was that all for naught? When thinking now of poor Chris Christie, My heart goes out. My eyes grow misty.