At first, we thought we should be glad To have a nanny for the lad– Young Bush, who might be overawed, Who’d barely even been abroad, Who seemed to us a lightweight laddie Who’d need a sitter sent by Daddy.

But Cheney’s shop became the place Where fantasists would make their case: Iraqis threaten. At the least, We’d rearrange the Middle East And rule the world forevermore If we just smashed them in a war.

Dick bought this bunk, and sold it, too. He lied back then, and he’s not through. He’d fooled the rubes like you and me Who never thought that he would be A zealot once he got installed. Stealth Nanny’s what he should be called.