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.