They said the law was ironclad,
Two terms—no more—was all he had.
No man could take the seat again,
No vote could bring him back to reign.

Yet buried deep within the code,
A hidden path, a secret road.
Not banned from power, just the race,
He’d claim the throne from second place.

Then Peabody, with studied hand,
Exposed the flaw, the law’s weak stand:
“A man who’s served his legal two
May rise again—but not from view.”

Not as the chief, but as the spare,
A twist so simple, yet so rare.
With Vance up front to take the prize,
The game was set, the perfect guise.

The votes were cast, the oaths were sworn,
A fleeting rule, a term stillborn.
For Vance would stand, then step aside,
And Trump would climb back up the ride.

Again in charge, again supreme,
The cycle spun—a perfect scheme.
For four more years, then yet again,
He'd yield, then seize the throne again.

The ballot held his name no more,
Yet through the backdoor, he’d restore—
Another pawn, another race,
Another round to take his place.

No rule was changed, no law was torn,
No force could call his play forsworn.
So long as none would break the chain,
The throne was his to claim again.