Prices are rising, driving us all mad,
we all agree that no one can relax;
this is the worst condition, things are bad,
and we can't bear up under these attacks.
McCain says "Cheer up, every lass and lad,
don't shiver in the face of these small cracks!
There is no reason for you to be sad.
We'll just remit some eighteen cents of tax!"
No one could doubt that someone would be glad
to send old John an email or a fax,
explaining just exactly how to add
some more gravitas to his ancient tracks.
For while we suffer he still has to pad
around selling ideas taken from mouldy sacks
and smelling rather worse than day-old shad:
"We'll just remit some eighteen cents of tax!"