[Snaps, low horns, cassette hiss, faint CIA polka loop] [Male // Righteous beatnik on borrowed time] Snap— Here comes Poppy Bush with a Yale handshake and a Langley grin, backroom grin, war-on-drugs with the coke still on the plane's wingtip spin. Iran-Contra? Just a crossword clue at his breakfast brief. Crack in the cities, profits offshore, he’s Reagan's echo with a bluer tie and quieter war. [Turntable choke, oboe honk, embassy static] He read his lips: “No new taxes.” Then signed the dotted line like it was fan mail. Snap! That’s the sound of a budget doing jumping jacks in a deficit graveyard. [Baritone chorus // Harmonized sarcasm, jittery brush drums] Read our lips— He cleaned the mess with the same dirty broom. Told the poor: "It’s trickle-down rain." But forgot the umbrella. Or maybe he sold it to Kuwait. [Snaps intensify, bassline hits like scandal] Snap— Panama burned like an old file folder, while the Pentagon faxed excuses in Morse code stutters. And Desert Storm? That was the trailer, baby. The sequel stars his boy. (We’ll get to that Snap later.) [Bassline slinks under a spoken sidebar] He shook hands with Noriega, then called him a thug. Snap! That’s diplomacy with amnesia and a side of hush money. [Final Drop – muted trumpet, VHS rewind effect, Nancy’s ghost giggling in astrology charts] And when it was done? He faded out like a VHS tape at prayer breakfast. But don’t worry— His legacy got inherited like oil rights and war debts. The son rose twice. And the second time? The tea went cold. But the Snap? Hotter than ever. Snap. Snap. Boogaloo out.
