We know that a bunch of you out there have recording equipment available, and perhaps some rudimentary skills with the banjo. I would like to take this opportunity to announce a recording contest — write and record a version of the lyrics below (alterations are allowable, but it must remain recognizably the same song, and not veer into bawdiness). Post a link to your version of the song in the comments section by July 20, and our incorruptible judges will award $250 dollars to the first prize winner. All the runners up will receive free health care for life. Note for the satirically impaired: this is not what you think it is.
The Ballad of John Roberts
John Roberts wrote some schizo words,
The nation puzzled long.
Whatever could the problem be?
And so we wrote this song.
Oh ho, oh no, the nation puzzled long.
Did he just buy ten bricks of coke
From a man named Escobar?
And did not see the cameraman
Who works the Midnight Star?
Oh ho, oh no, a man named Escobar.
Did he cavort with honeys blonde?
The yacht club kind, with legs?
Or did he find some offshore bank
For his financial eggs?
Oh ho, oh no, the yacht club kind with legs.
Is “Roberts” just an alias?
Is that man on the lam?
Did he shoot down in coldest blood
A man in Birmingham?
Oh ho, oh no, that man in Birmingham.
Or did he dump some toxic waste
Along a sandy beach,
Which then the greens and crazies used
To blackmail overreach?
Oh ho, oh no, that blackmailed overreach.
Or is he not part Cherokee?
As we so long believed?
And did he pad his resume
With purloined recipes?
Oh ho, oh no, he ain’t no Cherokee.
But we have found the sordid truth,
Which just Obama knew.
They shared a nursery long ago,
That sorry Kenyan crew.
Oh ho, oh no, that sorry Kenyan crew.
So let this be a lesson, lads,
If you would justice know,
Don’t ever nominate a man
With honeys, guns, or blow
Oh ho, oh no, with honeys, guns, or blow.