Tax Foolery has lampooned Donald Trump.  Now it’s Hilary Clinton’s turn.

(To tune of “Heavenly” by Burt Bacharach and Syd Shaw as recorded by Johnny Mathis on 1959 album of the same name)

Oh Hilary!  Our Hilary!
Keeps Bill inside a pillory.
Or else he’d fool around.
Often she’s found
her man about town.

Now Hilary! Our Hilary!
Will need her own distillery.
To drink to all those emails leaking out.

Yes, we know her –
a ma’am in pants.
Those liberal ideals she cants.
Whilst taking cash, from foreign friends.
And who knows where, the scandal ends.

That’s Hilary! Our Hilary!
Oh, the pretense is chilling me.
A queen who would be king,
Our Hilary!

Lyric © 2015 by Robert S. Steinberg, Esquire
All rights reserved


The first GOP presidential debate led me to believe we needed some more verses of “He’s the Trump,” (original posted June 27, 2015).

(To the tune of “You’re the Top,” by Cole Porter)

He’s the Trump
To the nuts will pander.
He’s the trump.
Thinks that “rude” is candor.
He’s the little brat, having tantrums that
all the neighbors dread.
He’s Napoleon, a relentless Hun,
He’s the biggest head.

He’s the Trump.
On the bully pulpit.
Serving rump.
And the media gulp it.
If he’s campaign should end in the garbage dump.
He’ll proclaim he’s still the winner
He’s the Trump.

He’s the Trump.
Implies Meagan’s menstrual.
In no slump.
Calls his reign eventual.
He’s the charging herd, of verbal turd a clump.
But he’s always true to Donald.
He’s the Trump.

Lyric © 2015 by Robert S. Steinberg, Esquire
All rights reserved


I’ve often wondered about the use of the word “sport” to describe hunting.   Where is the sport when the animal is unarmed?  Give the animal a sporting chance with an equally armed protector charged with knocking off the hunter.  I doubt many hunters would try that sport.

(To the tune of “He Loves and She Loves,” by George Gershwin and Ira Gershwin)

Bears live, and mews live
and wild Kangaroos live.
We live, let them live too.

Elephants who live
outside of a zoo live
fearful of what we’ll do.

Lions should roam free.
They’re kings, after all.
Not made a trophy
you’d hang on some wall.

They’re born to,

Live free, and run free
on plains that, are gun-free.
Safe from the hunter’s view.

Lyric © 2015 by Robert S. Steinberg, Esquire
All rights reserved