You tricky Politician, you swiller of bad gin,
You like to be upon the side you think is bound to win.
You're always after dollars, but don't object to cents,
And still the way you get them, is by keeping "on the fence."
You've no more sense of honour, than has a rotten egg,
A scurvy politician you, you'll come at last to beg;
You'll loaf around the corners, as you've often done before,
Until you're but a common tramp, who begs from door to door.