So Clinton’s once more in my rhyme,
It’s all about her health this time,
We’ve had donations, emails too,
And now she says, “It’s hot,” and “Phew!”

The story is that she sat there,
Last Sunday in the open air,
It was a lovely sunny day –
The sort you get on holiday.

But as she sat there in the heat,
In central New York, in the street,
She suddenly became quite ill –
Yet more grist to the rumour mill.

Then as she headed for her car,
Which luckily was not too far,
There isn’t really any doubt,
That on the pavement she passed out.

“God, catch her!” then somebody cried,
To secret agents at her side,
“And make sure that you stand her up,
Because today we’ve no backup.

We don’t want TV crews to see,
Her falling under gravity,
Or else she’ll never live it down,
Especially in New York town.

It will do her campaign much harm,
She has already little charm,
And if she should get any worse,
We’ll have to move her in a hearse.

Image –

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