How dear to my heart are the grand politicians Who constantly strive for the popular votes, Indulging in platitudes, trite repetitions, And time-honored bromides surrounded with quotes; Though equally verbose opponents assail them With bitter invective, they never can quell The force of the buncombe, which never will fail them -- The old hokum buncombe we all know so well. @3The old hokum buncombe, The iron-clad buncombe, The moss-covered buncombe we all know so well.@1 They aim to make friends of the laboring classes -- The trust of the people is sacred with them -- They swear that they're slaves to the will of the masses, They hem and they haw, and they haw and they hem; They rave with a vehemence almost terrific, There isn't a doubt which they cannot dispel, They revel in orgies of hope beatific -- And serve us the buncombe we all know so well. @3The old hokum buncombe, The iron-clad buncombe, The moss-covered buncombe we all know so well.@1 Their torrents of words are a sure paregoric For all of the ills to which mankind is prey. They pose as a Hamlet lamenting the Yorick Who typifies that which their rivals betray. They picture perfection in every effusion; We gaze at Utopia under their spell, And though it is only an optic illusion -- We fall for the buncombe we all know so well. @3The old hokum buncombe, The iron-clad buncombe, The moss-covered buncombe we all love so well.@1 |