When we elected Sweet Old Bob to represent our city,
He said he'd never take a bribe nor tap into the kitty.
We misconstrued, he turned out lewd, and isn't it a pity
That now we're screwed because his "private conduct" has been shoddy.
His platform failed to mention groping, feeling, copping, kissing.
I'm pretty sure that spooning, mooning, chi, and tea were missing.
And so he bagged a victory that left opponents hissing,
And set about to leave his mark, a man of poll and party.
Turns out "increasing public staffing" isn't what we thought,
And "touching every household" isn't quite what we were taught,
And "I'll scratch your back" isn't just a metaphor for "bought",
And kleenex, with a thousand uses, isn't just for sneezing.
So listen, Sweet Old Bob. It isn't you. It's me. It's we.
You quid pro quo, and I can't go for that with you, you see.
A swift kick in the recall may cut short your sunset spree,
So sail away. Your stream, now slow, will only finally peter.