The race was gittin' hot as fire, so hustlin' out the vote,
Politicians
rode a country bus to townships most remote,
Where standing in
the city square atop a stone or stump,
They touted all their
party's fare, 'called the other guy a chump.
Promoting all the party lines, which spread like fresh manure,
They
called each other criminals. 'Course they themselves was pure,
So
one day as they was traveling, they crossed a railroad track,
And
a speeding train came barreling down and gave the bus a whack.
The bus went tumbling terrible, landed burning and in shreds,
A
farmer investigated, and there was lots of dead,
Out there so
far, t'was most remote, there wasn't no physicians,
So the farmer
dug a giant hole and buried all them politicians.
The sheriff drove his raig'lar route, and there he seen the wreck,
So
he stopped and asked the farmer, who 'splained how he had checked,
Then
he'd buried all the bodies, which seemed to him polite,
"What
if some was still alive? How'd you know that you was right?"
"Well, I asked 'em all," the farmer said, "every
single one,"
"Nobody answered?" the sheriff asked,
"So you knowed that they was done?"
"Well, some
of 'em said they wasn't dead," the farmer's grin was wry,
"But
I knowed better, so I buried 'em. You know - them politicians lie."
