The Convicted Son (An Ode To Hunter Biden)

(Photo by Kevin Dietsch/Getty Images)

Gage Klipper Commentary & Analysis Writer
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The pound of a gavel, a jury of peers,

A guilty verdict, at last so near,

Behold, our Dear Leader’s fallen prodigy

Mired and broken, beside his own legacy.


While it took some time, to arrive at this fate

Fret not, though the hour is late

Here lies the tale of a prodigal son’s fame,

Hunter Biden — the champion in this twisted game.


Father glooms and advises, to no avail,

Brother sadly deceased, a most tragic tale,

With mother gone, childhood was grim,

It left not a soul to catechize him.


Yet behold! A man of virtues untold,

Whose glorious exploits glisten like gold,

A dance with the devil, his trusted friend,

His mind a kaleidoscope, a journey to no end.


Cocaine on the table, crack on the floor,

American royalty, unafraid of a knock at the door,

But let us not be too harsh, with a matter so grave,

Rather let’s give this brick of Parmesan a shave.


O Laptop! My Laptop! Our fearful trip is done,

Scheming Putin, the Russians have won,

Disinformation — at least that’s what they tell me,

Hard to know for certain with a mem’ry so hazy.


Yet amidst foreign lands his business did thrive,

A master of entanglements, no one could deny,

The wonders of trading, on a famous name,

A birthright squandered, yet still he finds no shame.


Burisma and Moscow, corruption galore,

A tale for the ages, never a bore,

A bag of cash here, another o’er there,

The life of a prince doesn’t have to be fair.


Yet for our hero, it’s family over all,

No fortune too big, no favor too small,

Ten percent for the Big Guy, a small price to pay,

When your next paycheck is but an election away.


Oh, how he triumphed, a prince on his throne,

A background of privilege, now tossed, overthrown,

For what use is wealth and comfort sublime,

When one can embrace in the splendor of grime?


Amidst the shadows, a thirst for desire,

He sought solace in the arms of hire,

A mistress of trade, her presence discreet,

His addiction to pleasure, a taste bittersweet.


But wait, there’s more, a romance of delight,

A love story so scandalous, hidden from sight,

With brother’s widowed wife, a tryst so bold,

A web of tangled passions, a tale to be told.


Yet our lustful hero, never satisfied,

The widow’s sister, she too caught his eyes,

Sending text after text, risque and flirty,

A marriage defiled, ever so dirty.


Behold the plight of this once-proud name,

Financial woes, a relentless claim,

For what good are riches and prosperous gain,

When debts and burdens are all that remain?


In the realm of fatherhood, a child’s plea,

A tiny voice, yearning to be free,

But he turned a blind eye, refused to see,

The bond that he denied, a choice for eternity.


Nights at the Waldorf, keys in the Porsche,

Father needs someone to carry his torch,

Yet the life of a Biden, not all games and fun,

The walls closing in, we’ve had a good run.


Alas! Our hero approaches his doom,

Authorities discovered a gun in its tomb,

Little lies on a form, is all that it took,

Right at his head, thrown at it — the book.


Truth is a challenge, a feat to behold,

So many lies, to remain untold,

Yet our prince will carry on, no need to despair,

Truth’s hard to spot with fake teeth and fake hair.


Yet when all’s said and done, but a slap on the wrist,

In what must surely be a media twist,

Our hero escapes, just by a thread,

Why bother when monsters like Trump hide under the bed?


Now here he comes, to his own again,

The Feds forgive and play pretend,

On riotous living, on laughter he’ll dine,

But still there remains, no reproach among swine.


The return of the son, bowed, head down,

The Second Amendment cannot save him now,

“He’s the best man I know,” father says with pride,

“But will he ever stop being a thorn in the side?”


Oh Hunter, the champion of twisted tales,

Your exploits, they dance, as irony prevails,

A cautionary ode to your glorious strife,

A toast to a prodigal son’s broken life.