The outlook wasn’t brilliant for Team Kimberlin that day;
Brett’s lawfare was going nowhere; it didn’t look like there were many more innings left to play.
The pedobomber looked all washed up, every result came back the same,
and so a sickly silence fell upon the patrons of his game.
A straggling few got up to go in deep despair, the rest
clung to that hope which springs eternal in the craven-hearted breast.
They thought, if only Billy Schmalfeldt could step in and take a whack-
they’d have those right-wing Breitbots on the run from the force of his attack.
But Matt Osborne was a bunny boy, and Turd Ferguson’s mind was gone,
and Brett himself was aging and his game these days wasn’t really on.
Too many years since he’d blown anyone up or had a big dope deal win,
so there seemed but little chance of getting Billy to step in.
But then from a multitude of decent folks there rose a painful groan;
it rumbled through the valley, it chilled you to the bone;
it knocked upon the mountain and echoes ring there yet,
for Billy, oafish Billy, was posting on the ‘net.
There was ease in Billy’s manner as he stepped into his place;
there was poop in Billy’s Depends that brought a smile to his face.
And when, responding to the crowd, he gave a single-digit salute,
no right-minded soul could doubt that he really didn’t give a hoot.
A thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with shit;
and then they started ducking when he started flinging it.
And when John Hoge made a comment that attracted Billy’s wrath;
vengeance gleamed in Billy’s eye; it wasn’t hard to do the math.
And now the restraining order case came hurtling down the docket,
and Billy stood a-watching it stopping only just to mock it.
Right by that arrogant bastard the hearing unheeded sped–
“That ain’t my style,” said Billy. “So ordered,” the first judge said.
Around the Internet from Team Free Speech there went up a muffled roar,
like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.
“That’ll stop him now, see!” shouted someone on the stand;
and it’s likely they’d’ve moved on had not Billy played another hand.
With a sly grin of outlaw savagery big Billy’s visage shone;
he launched another faildoxx; his harassment and his stalking proceeded on.
He contacted folks’ employers, and once more the petitions flew;
but Billy still ignored them, and another judge ordered: “Strike two.”
“Dumbf*ck!” cried the maddened Zombies, and with this call the ‘net was filled;
but one scornful look from Billy and the audience was for an instant stilled.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
and they knew that Billy wouldn’t let a default go by again.
The sneer is gone from Billy’s lip, his face is red and mean;
he pounds yet another victim with cruel violence on the screen.
And now the judge stands at the bench, and now she enters her decree,
and now the air is shattered by Billy’s shout of “Who, me?”
Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
the band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
and somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
but there is no joy in Team Kimberland — mighty Billy has struck out.