If naughts could only grow on trees,
As many think they ought,
Obama’s bill would pass with ease,
And to his desk be brought.
But since his bill has nine big naughts
Which stretch the Total line,
The Senate tied it up in knots
With nothing left to sign.
The President is now distraught;
The law that he had planned
Could not be sold, strong-armed or bought,
Or passed by sleight of hand.
He now breaks down what he had sought
To bits of smaller cost,
With hope, perhaps, a smaller lot
Will not be tossed and lost.
But still the bill that he presents
Is burdened by nine naughts,
Which guarantees the Senate’s gents
Will kill it on the spot.
Thus all for naught the President,
And that which he begot,
Will suffer more embarrassment –
Until he hears the Not!
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