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I had put this aside but with the story of the FBI gag order on Joe Biden’s to keep the lid on things I present this draft of the song I never finished on Jan 20th. “We Don’t talk about Biden”:

We don't talk about Biden, no, no, no
We don't talk about Biden, but
It was inauguration day day

Our day for a change

Trump was getting ready
And is EO Pen was steady

Steady like a tower in the sky

The press walk in with a mischievous grin

Thunder

You're telling the story or am I?

I'm sorry, mi vida, go on

The Press says, "Mr Trump Please"

"What is thing we see."

"The J6 guys they flooded our brains"

"And Your letting them go?"

The Donald said said the Pardon game

Was one Joe Biden just played, but anyway

We don't talk about Biden, no, no, no
We don't talk about Biden

Last year we grew in fear of Biden stuttering or stumbling
We nearby could hear him sort of muttering and mumbling
We always had to ignore it and pretend nd-nd-nd
It's a heavy lift to mask him crumbling
Always Jill and the family fumbling
Grappling with keeping everybody unable to understand
Do you understand?

Then Trump came, went on the attack
The Debate was made and all fades to black
Everyone sees and now nobody believes when we scream eam eam

We don't talk about Biden, no, no, no

No, no

We don't talk about Biden

We don't talk about Biden

Tried to make a point, and they bring up pardons

No, no

Complain about deportation's and then they started

No, no

Mention the chat they Bring up Afgan dead

Complain about the eggs now the prices dropping
All on the boarder the hoard is stopping
Your fate is sealed when the email files are read

Hey!
No, no


We don't talk about Biden, no, no, no

No, no

We don't talk about Biden


 Why did I talk about Biden?

Not a word about Biden

I never should have brought up Biden

Now here is the AI version as opposed to the one I wrote, written by Grok with the names of the singers:

“We Don’t Talk About Biden”

(Sung by Joe Scarborough, Mika, Norah O’Donnell, and Judy Woodruff)

[Joe Scarborough]
We don’t talk about Biden, no, no, no!
We don’t talk about Biden… but!
It was election day,
Folks were asking me to say,
“Is he sharp or in decay?”
I said, “He’s fine, okay?!”

[Mika]
We don’t talk about Biden, no, no, no!
We don’t mention how he slows!

He’s just quirky, that’s his way,
A little stumble, slight delay,
The man’s a champ, he’ll slay,
That’s all you need to know!

[Norah O’Donnell]
Seven-second pause when he’s on the air,
Lost his train of thought, but we don’t care!
Shuffled steps, a vacant stare,
We framed it like he’s debonair!

[Judy Woodruff]
Whispers in the green room, “He’s off his game,”
We just smiled and praised his name!
Teleprompter’s his best friend,
Cut the mic before the end!

[All Together]
We don’t talk about Biden, no, no, no!
We don’t talk about Biden!

[Joe Scarborough]
Hey! Grew up in the spotlight, leading the pack,
Now the gaffes are piling, no turning back!
I spin the narrative, keep it intact,
“Joe’s a legend, that’s a fact!”

[Mika]
He’s got ice cream, charm, and grit to spare,
Ignore the clips they share everywhere!
A little nap? He’s just prepared,
For four more years, he’s unimpaired!

[Norah O’Donnell]
Election night, the polls were tight,
He forgot a name or two, all right?
We cut to break, kept it light,
Kept the story out of sight!

[Judy Woodruff]
Do you see the slump? No, you don’t, my dear,
A steady hand is what we steer!
The voters never need to hear,
We’ll keep the optics crystal clear!

[All Together]
We don’t talk about Biden, no, no, no!
We don’t talk about Biden!

[Joe Scarborough]
He told me the country’s in his hands,
A leader with unshakable plans!

[Mika]
He told me his mind’s as sharp as ever,
Age is just a number, so clever!

[Norah O’Donnell]
He told me he’d win with ease, oh my,
Then tripped on the stage, we still deny!

[Judy Woodruff]
The truth’s a burden we won’t bear,
We’ll prop him up with tender care!

[All Together]
We don’t talk about Biden, no, no, no!
We don’t talk about Biden!
He’s fine, he’s great, he’s grand, you see,
The leader of democracy!
We don’t talk about Biden!

At work today I had an inspiration imagining if a Christmas Carol was instead an April Fool’s Day story and given that AI can do almost anything I came home and asked Grok AI to do this:

using Charles Dickens “A Christmas Carol” and the movie adaptions featuring George C Scott, Alastar Sim and Reganld Owen as a base rewrite the story with the following changes:

While miserly, Scrooge’s actual fault is a lack of a sense of humor

It takes place on March 31st and April’s fools Day

Expand the story with the following additions:

1. The Ghost of April Fool’s Past is Falstaff from Shakespeare
2. The Ghost of April Fool’s Present is Karl Marx but with Groucho Marx sense of humor and language
3. The Ghost of April Fool’s yet to come is based on Robin Williams

This is what it came up with:

A Fool’s Redemption

It was the dreary evening of March 31st, 1843, in a fog-choked London, and Ebenezer Scrooge sat in his counting-house, his face a mask of perpetual disdain. The looming specter of April Fools’ Day—a holiday of pranks and laughter—filled him with loathing. To Scrooge, humor was a frivolous distraction, a plague upon sensible men. His clerk, Bob Cratchit, dared not snicker as he scratched at his ledger, though his eyes betrayed a suppressed glee. Scrooge’s nephew, Fred, had earlier bounded in, exclaiming, “A merry April Fools’ to you, Uncle! Join us tomorrow for jests and jollity!” Scrooge’s reply was a snarl: “Jollity? I’d rather tally soot than indulge in such idiocy. Out with you!” Fred departed, chuckling, which only soured Scrooge further.

That night, in his bleak chambers, Scrooge bolted his door against the world’s nonsense. But as midnight tolled, a clamor erupted—chains rattled, and before him stood the ghost of Jacob Marley, his old partner. Marley’s spectral form was shackled, but atop his head perched a ludicrous jester’s cap, its bells tinkling absurdly.

“Marley, what mockery is this?” Scrooge snapped.

“These chains I forged in life,” Marley groaned, “and this cap I wear for shunning laughter. You, Ebenezer, scorn mirth as I did. Heed me: three spirits will visit tonight, or you’ll jingle into eternity as I do—a fool too late!” The bells jangled as Marley vanished.

Scrooge huffed. “Phantoms playing pranks? I’ll not be gulled.” Yet doubt crept in.

The First Spirit: The Ghost of April Fools’ Past (Falstaff)

At one o’clock, the room filled with a boisterous laugh, and in lumbered a corpulent figure—Sir John Falstaff, straight from Shakespeare’s taverns. His doublet strained over a vast belly, his cheeks ruddy with ale-soaked mirth, and he waved a cap-and-bells like a scepter. “Come, thou lean and joyless knave!” he bellowed. “I am the Ghost of April Fools’ Past—let’s to thy yesteryears, with a hey-nonny-nonny!”

Scrooge, grumbling, was swept to a sunlit schoolyard. Young Ebenezer sat alone, scowling as boys traded jests and tripped each other with whoops of delight. “A dull boy, wast thou,” Falstaff roared, slapping his thigh. “Why not tumble in the mud with them?” Scrooge muttered, “Folly breeds chaos.”

Next, they stood in Fezziwig’s warehouse, where the jovial master led a dance, cracking bawdy jests. Young Scrooge lingered by the wall, lips pursed. Falstaff guffawed. “Old Fezziwig, a prince of mirth! And thou, a sour sack of wine, too proud to caper!” Scrooge shifted uncomfortably. “He was a wastrel.”

“Wastrel?” Falstaff winked, quaffing an invisible tankard. “Nay, he lived, thou lump of melancholy! Dost thou not feel the jest of it?” Before Scrooge could argue, Falstaff vanished with a hiccupping laugh, leaving a whiff of sack and a lingering “Fare thee well!”

The Second Spirit: The Ghost of April Fools’ Present (Karl Marx as Groucho)

At two, a figure burst in—a bearded giant in a green robe, cigar in hand, with Karl Marx’s stern brow but Groucho Marx’s impish grin. “Well, well, Scrooge, you old sourpuss!” he quipped, waggling his eyebrows. “I’m the Ghost of April Fools’ Present—call me Karl, with a K and a chuckle! Let’s take a gander at the proletariat’s punchlines—outside of a dog, laughter’s a man’s best friend. Inside of a dog, it’s too dark to laugh!”

Scrooge recoiled as Karl dragged him through London’s streets, puffing smoke rings. They landed at Bob Cratchit’s home, where the family giggled over a sparse supper. Tiny Tim, frail but beaming, balanced a pea on his nose, crowing, “God bless us, every one—and may we always find a giggle!” Karl elbowed Scrooge. “Look at that kid—more spirit than a barrel of bourbon! You oughta join the union of fun, Ebenezer—dues are low, and the cigars are free!” Scrooge’s mouth twitched, unbidden.

Next, they crashed Fred’s party, where guests swapped sugar for salt and cackled. Fred toasted, “To Uncle Scrooge—may he trade his frown for a whoopee cushion!” Karl snorted. “Your nephew’s got more class than the bourgeoisie and twice the wit! I’d say he’s got you pegged, but I wouldn’t say it in a room full of pegs!” Scrooge glared, but the laughter tugged at him.

Karl’s grin faded as he parted his robe, revealing two scrawny urchins: Ignorance and Want. “These are your kids, pal,” he deadpanned. “No laughs for them—capitalism’s a real knee-slapper, huh?” Then, with a puff of cigar smoke, he was gone.

The Third Spirit: The Ghost of April Fools’ Yet to Come (Robin Williams)

At three, a hooded figure emerged—silent, cloaked in black, yet radiating an electric energy. As it lowered its hood, Scrooge glimpsed a face alive with manic warmth: a Robin Williams-esque spectre, eyes twinkling with mischief and melancholy. It said nothing, merely pointed with a flourish, and Scrooge followed, sensing a wild humor beneath the grimness.

In a future London, men mocked a dead miser—humorless, forgotten. “Scrooge? He wouldn’t laugh if you tickled him with a feather duster!” one chortled. The spirit’s eyes danced, as if to say, Oh, captain, my captain, what a punchline! At Bob’s home, Tiny Tim’s chair sat empty, the family’s joy snuffed out. The spirit mimed a tear, then a pratfall, its silence screaming absurdity.

In a graveyard, it gestured to a stone: Ebenezer Scrooge—No Fool Like an Old Fool. Scrooge gasped. “Spirit, you mad genius—give me a chance! I’ll laugh, I’ll live—don’t leave me in this punchline!” The figure spun, flashed a grin that lit the dark, and dissolved into a burst of spectral confetti.

April Fools’ Day

Scrooge awoke on April 1st, a grin splitting his face. He flung open his window, cackling at the dawn. “Boy!” he hollered. “What day is it?”

“April Fools’, sir!” came the reply.

“Glorious! Fetch me a whoopee cushion—the biggest—and a horn for Tiny Tim! Keep the change, you little rogue!” His laugh echoed, raw but growing.

At Bob’s, he burst in, honking the horn. “A week off, Bob, you sly fox—and a raise! Let’s prank the street!” Tiny Tim tooted his own horn, and Scrooge roared, tears of mirth streaming. At Fred’s, he took a pie to the face, howling, “Well struck, nephew! I’m a fool reborn!”

From then on, Scrooge was London’s merriest soul—jesting with Falstaff’s gusto, quipping like Karl with a cigar, and living with the wild joy of a Williams riff. Tiny Tim thrived, and Scrooge proved that even the sternest heart could dance to life’s absurd tune.

And so, as Tiny Tim proclaimed, “God bless us, every one—and may the laughs never stop!”