When thinking now of poor Chris Christie,
My heart goes out. My eyes grow misty.
The White House door to him was shut,
’Twas said, unless he lost that gut.
So bariatric work was done.
He dropped some weight—though not a ton,
Enough at least so he could chase
That White House dream. He’s in the race.
But he’s got problems in his state,
And Bridgegate came to demonstrate
That some of Christie’s straight-talk luster
Was based on just a bully’s bluster.
So now, despite his smaller tum,
He’s near the bottom of the scrum.
What must, I’m thinking, make him frown
Is all the food that he turned down—
The sausage pizzas he rejected
So, slimmer, he could be elected,
The hamburgers he could have bought
But didn’t. Was that all for naught?
When thinking now of poor Chris Christie,
My heart goes out. My eyes grow misty.