The king heads to Mount Rushmore on the third.
He wants to shit on their heads like a bird.
The giant three slave owners,
enough to give him boners;
he likes the fact they won’t get in a word.
The worry is he’ll climb up on their faces,
searching for the one that he replaces.
The best bet is old Abe, emancipation’s babe.
The king would like to modify his stasis.
“Then I’ll be number one,”
(points up with tiny thumb)
“the top Republican chief of all time.”
He’ll plant a couple caps,
wipe Lincoln off the maps,
and say it was a joke and not a crime.