Pity the Mooch: A Seussian Tale of Scaramucci

Pity the Mooch.
He’s lost er’thing, you see.
In just ten days’ time
He revealed his destiny.

It began with some bluster
And a puff of the chest
Could this small man
Stand above all the rest?

When the call came in, he grunted,
“Fuck it, Deidre, it’s time.”
“For our baby?” she asked. 
“Nah, bitch,” he laughed, “I’ve hit my prime.”

So the Mooch packed his bags 
And started making a list
Of who had to go
And the asses to be kissed.

Spicer was a no
And Priebus was, too.
And then there was Bannon.
My God, how he blew.

The business was sold 
And divorce papers were signed.
As visions of Murdochs 
Danced through his small mind.

“Fire up the Trump steaks!”
He demanded with zeal.
“Hey, Ivanka! Hey, Kushner! 
Let’s celebrate with a meal.”

Hair slicked back 
He’d just returned from dinner 
When suddenly…
The Mooch felt a funny twitch in his finger.
A force took control
And Lizza’s number was dialed.
Justice would be served.
And with that, the Mooch smiled
He cursed! He yelled! 
He spoke of auto-felate.
Surely this conversation 
Would set the record straight.

Off the record or on — 
Does it even really matter?
The Mooch lost his way.
His delicate ego might shatter.

With the twit of a tweet
Trump announced it was done.
No business to turn to 
Or wife and baby to shun.
Pity the Mooch
He’s lost er’thing, you see.
But for ten days’ time
He captivated the land of the free.