Nineteen hundred eighty-eight
Is an election year
And what the politicians say
is all we're gonna hear
They all call each other crooks
They say things are a mess
They really sling a lot of mud
And spread the old B.S.
A few of them run on their records
And say nothing about the others
Those are the ones I'd like to elect
If I could have my druthers
When November ninth gets here
Some of them will be sad
The election will be over
And I sure will be glad
D. B. Cox
