A Fitzmas Carol
Oh little town of Washington, we know you love to lie,
And when you want to go to war, the cow turds really fly.
And if a critic whineth, the case for war's a bust,
They'll find a way to punish him and teach you who to trust.
Just listen to Dick Cheney, or Condoleeza Rice,
This man Saddam has got the bomb, and he's not very nice.
If we don't move to stop him, with air strikes true and proud,
We'll suffer for our tardiness beneath a mushroom cloud.
(More Fitzmas tidings below the flip)
But then came Joseph Wilson, who had this smoking gun:
Saddam Hussein had not obtained enriched uranium!
The right cried "liberal bias," the left called to impeach.
Soon prosecutor Fitzgerald's indictments seemed in reach.
And down came Scooter Libby, anointed with the blame,
For squealing to the media and outing Valerie Plame.
She was a secret agent, who led a covert life,
And who coincidentally was Joseph Wilson's wife.
Oh favorite son of Washington, enlighten us, we pray,
With your excuse for this abuse, how were you led astray?
And now we hear sad tidings of why ol' Scooter blew it:
"It's not my fault! I swear to God! The Preznit made me do it!"