Your goal is to make so much noise, to wave your hands
So urgently, that no one looks away to see the dreadful
Mess you've made of things.  It almost worked last time
You came, but, in the end, the marks got wise.  They saw
The damage you were doing, and they sent you home,
But suckers can be fooled again.  They drifted back, 
And, dazzled by your antics, let you lead once more, 
And, having grown, in some sense, you're creating 
A catastrophe.  The marks, despite your senseless patter, 
Brouhaha, and dervish whirl, cannot help but notice it.  
You feel them breaking free of you.  Historians already 
Have declared you our worst president.  Soon, the suckers 
Who had hailed you surely will agree.