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There once was a deal, loosely made,
That old scores would be quietly laid.
“Three months,” Wiles had pled,
But she later conceded—
When tempted, he still would cascade.

Said Wiles of the grudges in play,
“They’re not on his mind every day.”
Yet chance opens wide,
And vengeance’s tide
Is one he won’t let drift away.

In interviews strikingly bare,
She spoke with a novelist’s flair.
What Vanity heard
Was blunt, often blurred—
And left many readers agog, slack-jawed, there.

She said prosecutions were bent
By urges for payback, not meant.
And claims tossed at Bill
Were, bluntly, untrue still—
A fiction the president sent.

Of Trump she opined, rather tart,
“He’s wired like drink haunts the heart.”
Not sipping the gin,
But compulsive within—
An addict for conflict and art.

Of Vance she was hardly impressed:
“A theorist for years,” she confessed.
His shift to Trump’s side
Was politically tied,
Not faith, but a Senate race test.

Of Musk she seemed startled and shook:
“An odd, odd duck,” quoth her book.
Ketamine named,
His logic she blamed—
At times left her staring, aghast-look.

And others fared little bit better:
A zealot, a whiff, name by letter.
Budget and law
Drew her candid guffaw—
A staffer unbound by the fetter.

There once was a pact on a napkin,
With ketchup and fries slowly slappin’.
“Three months, then we’re done!”
Said the chief to the one—
But the ink kept on muttering happen.

The president swore, with a grin,
“I’m not thinking revenge—count to ten.”
But fate cracked a door,
And he yelled, “Just one more!”
As subpoenas came pouring like rain.

Ms. Wiles spoke so freely it stunned
Every editor sipping their rum.
Each interview spilled
Like a blender unsealed—
Eleven times set to maximum.

She nodded: yes, law had been bent
By a craving for payback, not meant.
And tales Epstein-bound
Were just flung, not well-found—
A fib with no passport or tent.

“An alcoholic’s personality!”
She said, with alarming neutrality.
Not booze in a glass,
But the need for a clash—
A bender on pure animosity.

JD Vance, she remarked with a sigh,
“Has theorized truths passing by.”
His pivot was quick,
Not moral—just slick,
Timed neatly for Senate, oh my.

Elon Musk floated in, strange as a loon,
On ketamine clouds and a half-rational moon.
An odd, odd duck,
With decisions gone plunk,
Leaving aides clutching desks till high noon.

Russ Vought marched stiff as a board,
Every spreadsheet a holy word stored.
A zealot so right
He could tilt day to night—
The budget baptized and restored.

Pam Bondi, alas, met her fate
In a folder labeled Epstein: Complicate.
She swung and she missed,
Left the truth in a mist—
A whiff heard in chambers of state.

So ends this bizarre little play,
Where grudges and ketamine stay,
And the napkin deal’s gone,
With the fries and the dawn—
Leaving limericks to clean up the fray.