Presidential Year

You hear it from the farmer and you hear it from the clerk,

You hear it from the business man, and all the men who work.

You hear it from the peasant and you hear it from the peer,

That times are mighty dull because it’s presidential year.

If crops fail at the harvest, if the weather is too dry,

If floods destroy the plantings, or the locusts happen by;

If the crows destroy the cornfield or the oats are nipped by deer,

Then the farmer’ll say, “I told ye, it’s the presidential year.”

If the weather’s cold and clammy at the ocean view resort,

If the lobster’s shorter’n ever, and the fish cannot be caught;

If the men desert the seaside to the grief of maidens dear,

Then ‘twill be the same old story, it’s the presidential year.

If there’s strikes, and mobs and riots, if there’s cutting wages down,

If there’s any kind of trouble in the city or the town;

If these verses are rejected, as they ought to be, I fear,

It will be for just this reason, it’s the presidential year.

April 1, ‘04