– The Nap Strikes Back
(VERSE 1)
He used to bark from a TV stage,
“Sleepy Joe’s too old for the age!”
Mocked the man for a softer tone,
Said, “That guy should head back home.”
Crowds went wild, he wore that grin,
Like irony would never set in…
But turns out fate can read a thread —
Now he’s noddin’ off mid-Zoom instead.
[CHORUS]
Dozer — dreamin’ while the cameras roll,
Dozer — slumped like a used punch bowl,
Called Joe sleepy? Now the meme’s reversed —
’Cause Dowser’s out here snorin’ first.
Time don’t tweet, but it sure keeps track…
And the nap strikes back.
[VERSE 2]
He called Joe’s walk a “shuffle show,”
Said, “He can’t even tie a bow.”
“Low energy,” he’d always jeer,
As if Red Bull ran the year.
But watch him at the NATO mic —
Eyes like shutters, timing’s tight.
Sleep don’t care what party’s in —
It’ll grab your eyelids, thick or thin.
[CHORUS 2]
Dozer — drifting through a border brief,
Dozer — like he’s counting sheep,
Used to brag he’d never tire —
Now he’s the one who’s lost the wire.
He sold that “vital spark” in stacks…
But the nap strikes back.
[BRIDGE – spoken, with twang]
[They said, “You mocked him for naps and age…”]
[He said, “Fake news! Turn the page.”]
[Then blinked real slow, mid-reply —]
[And let out a sigh you could practically ride.]
[VERSE 3]
He once claimed strength was in the stance,
Said “Sleepy leaders miss their chance.”
But cameras zoomed — what did they find?
A man half-gone, half outta time.
Now headlines echo with his phrase,
But the joke’s been flipped in a thousand ways.
Even Joe cracked with a grin so sly:
“Guess the nickname wasn’t mine.”
[FINAL CHORUS]
Dozer — stuck in a sleepy loop,
Dozer — head-down in the briefing group,
Life don’t need a clever script —
Sometimes it just lets the eyelids slip.
No need to mock or counterattack…
’Cause the nap strikes back.
[OUTRO – spoken, quiet, as music fades]
First they laughed at Sleepy Joe…
Now Sleepy Joe’s just watchin’ the show.
History don’t clap — it yawns…
and moves on.
Gene Scott grew up on a tenant farm in Sheffield, Illinois, where strip mines swallowed the prairie and Euclid trucks hauled coal past the kitchen window. His father welded for International Harvester winters and pulled hogs from collapsed mine shafts. His mother drove a hundred miles round-trip to Bradley University three days a week, graduated with honors, and never let them miss a meal. Scott earned degrees from Illinois and Tennessee, married Lana Ferguson on her family’s front porch in Hancock County—the oldest residence in the county, where her Confederate ancestor is buried at the edge of the woods—and raised a son in the Appalachian foothills. His writing draws on Midwestern magical realism, generational memory, and the stories told around oak kitchen tables where stoker men and snake women once drank coffee.
