Twas da night befo’ votin’, ‘n all through Joe’s City,
All ‘e cronies be’n smoozin’, e’ben Ms. Kitty.

Da land deals ben stashed in da brief case ta tote,
‘N hopes dat His Honor would soon get da vote.

‘E council ben sittin’ all smug in da places’
While visions ‘o pay-backs danced fo’ da faces.
’N Rusty wid ‘e Chief Hat, ‘n Joe ‘n ‘e palace,
Had just settled in fo’ ta do some mo’ malice.
When up at da Fish Tank dere rose such ‘a cry,
Joe sprang from ‘e throne cus’ no tourist ben by.
Away ta da ‘Quarium ‘e flew up on DASH,
Tore open da checkbook ‘n look fo’ de cash.
Da dust on da seats on da just close-up IMAX
Ben bad news fo’ fishes, less dey get sum mo’ tax.

When what to ‘e beady little eyes should appear,
But ‘e own personal rickshaw jus’ rollin’ up near.
Den de little old Mayor, ‘e lets out wit’s a wale,
Cause ‘e be afraid de’Quarium gawn fail.
More rapid than cannons, his curses did shriek,
As ‘e strutted ‘n sputtered ta make Council meek.
“Now Wilson! Now Waring!, now Evans ‘n Tinkler!
On, Gilliard! On Gallant! On Morinelli ‘n Bleeker!
To da top ‘o da stairs, fo’ ta fill City Hall,
Now vote my way! Vote my way! Vote my way- all!”
As ‘e beats back da few, whose votes ‘e can’t buy,
When ‘e meets wit da truth, ‘e turns ta da sly.
‘N up ta da Court House ‘e pettifogger flew,
With ‘a fist full ‘o law suits fo’ Charlton ta do.

‘N den ‘n da inklin’, Joe’s look fo’ ‘e proof,
Ta cover ‘e tracks from ‘e latest Big Goof.
As ‘e jerked back ‘e neck from a’ nudder big blunder,
‘E jump from ‘e rickshaw ‘n fell right on under.
‘E was covered in “Hos’ Poop” from ‘e chin ta ‘e knees,
‘N looked like ‘a preacher who jus’ cut da cheese.
Big “Buckets ‘o Chickin’” ‘e pull from ‘e pack,
‘N look like da cheap suit jus’ fall from de rack.
‘E eyed dat man Tinkler who grin like ‘a Ferret,
As Gilliard ben look fo’ da camera ta snear at.
‘E dumped out da “Po’k Ribs” all ova’ da street
‘N hopes dat e’ cronies don’t vote wid’ da feet.
‘E broad little ears dey ben as Red as da Herrin,
‘Dat flapped like ‘a pigeon when ‘e start ta swearin’.
E’ looked shriveled ‘n slump like ‘a Piccolo Elf,
‘N mos’ liberal enuf ta vote twice fo ‘e self.
Wit’ ‘a flash ‘o ‘e eyes ‘n ‘a snap ‘o ‘e neck’
‘E look like ‘a gambler wit jus’ ‘a ‘Half Deck.
Den ‘e croak out ‘a speech dat be’n filled wit ‘e works,
Cause ‘e tink dat da voters jus’ be da dumb jerks.
Wit ‘e pointy little finger held up ta ‘e nose,
‘E look like Napoleon, ‘sept ‘e ain’t got no clothes.

E’ sprang ta ‘e rickshaw, n’ ta Council did whistle,
‘N away da all flew like Sp’lato Clowns on ‘a missile.