Vince Foster came to Washington
A strong and sturdy man,
A most unlikely candidate
To die by his own hand.
So did he take a rusty gun
And put it to his head,
Or when he got to that old fort
Was he already dead?
Now we sit and waste our time
In useless speculation
All because there never was
A real investigation.
The Park Police? The Park Police?
Who knows what they did?
Whatever they uncovered
They just as quickly hid.
The White House says he was depressed.
It's good that they revealed it,
Because from friends and family
They cleverly concealed it.
But what about that torn-up note,
The one the lawyer found?
Whoever wrote that woeful thing
Had to be unsound.
From everything we know of him
It doesn't sound like Foster.
It looks more like a forger's work,
A government impostor.
A man with a magician's touch,
More Copperfield than Vince,
Who ripped it into many parts
And left no fingerprints.
Now you see it, now you don't,
Missed right where it lay,
Held up for the slavish press,
The quickly whisked away.
What can it be that we can't see?
Why can't they let the sun in?
Maybe if the truth got out
The Slick One would be done in.
David Martin
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