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.