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A president fond of the grand,
Decreed with a flourish of hand,
“Forgive all my crew,
The red, white, and true—
Except me (for now), understand?”

Said Rudy, with a grin slightly wan,
“I knew Don would right every wrong!”
Though charged he was not,
He still liked the spot—
A pardon looks good in a song.

Mark Meadows, with cautious delight,
Declared, “I was never indicted, right?”
But he’ll frame that decree,
Hang it up by the tree,
And toast to the boss every night.

Powell and Eastman and Clark,
Lit sparks in the post-vote dark.
They plotted and pled,
While facts quietly bled—
Now pardoned, they stroll in the park.

The electors who claimed they were real,
Signed papers with counterfeit zeal.
They’re free from D.C.,
But the states disagree—
So justice still clings to their heel.

Poor Tina’s still locked in her cell,
Her breach didn’t go over well.
“Hero!” said Don,
As the judge droned on—
Nine years till Peters rings her next bell.

Said Martin, with bureaucrat grace,
“I’ve posted the list—four-page space!”
“Where’s Tina?” one cried,
He calmly replied,
“We’re working that case—watch this place.”

When Trump’s second term’s nearly gone,
He’ll muse as the cameras are on:
“I pardoned my friends,
But before this all ends—
Perhaps I should give me one.”