Barack Obama is soon to be an ex-president, spending his days playing golf, just as he did while president. Walking the lush green fairway the other day, a gentle rain brushing my face, I saw, in the distance, a lone figure standing in a bunker, sand wedge in his hands, a small white ball lying quietly at his feet. Approaching the green, I watched him for several minutes, waiting for the swing that would blast the ball out of the sand, to fall gently onto the green and roll sweetly into the cup. Yet he never swung the club, beyond a few indecisive movements of his hands. Wondering who the immobile figure was, I moved closer, and found myself on the lip of the trap, looking down at Barack Obama, a look of puzzlement on his face. I asked him what he was doing in the bunker, and he said he was always there, no matter what he did, a condition he thought was brought about by his being drunk the day his momma got out of jail, and he was being punished for it, likely for all eternity. I comforted him by saying he had a lot more things against him than that. He shook his head and said, “The only thing I did wrong, the only thing I would change, is the appointment of Hillary Clinton as Secretary of State.” He began to cry at that, and dropped the sand wedge and collapsed onto the wet sand. “I will never get out of this sand,” he moaned. “Never.”

The sand, he sobbed, beneath my feet, hides wealth beyond all measure
Great pools of oil are deep and wide, a long time Saudi treasure
And used to fund a princely life, now done in by the frackers
Who do not care for Saudi kings, they being poor white crackers
My plans to bring the region peace, by buying off the mullahs
Would work if Hillary was good as old John Foster Dulles
But she destroyed the work I did, by using her Foundation
To undermine my policy to elevate her station
The world is on the brink of war, and I stand in this bunker
Trapped in the sand beneath my feet, with naught to do but hunker
I saw a figure on the green dressed as a wealthy Arab
Kufiyah, robe, a haughty air, bejeweled with ring and scarab
Obama sniffed and said he’s mad, in tones of great abhorrence
An English chap, Obama sneered, believe his name is Lawrence
He thinks that blowing up some trains and causing inconvenience
Is better than my policy of great and greater lenience
Ah well, he sighed, this too shall end, these unsought tribulations
For fairly soon, as I have planned, we’ll all be Muslim nations