(SATIRE) Same old song and dance

The Buncombe Bunch

(Sung to the tune of the theme song for “The Brady Bunch”)

Here’s a story of a corrupt lady
Who was plotting with fellow bureaucrats.
All of them had eyes on gold,
Like their leader,
In forms from wine to cash.

Here’s a story of a once-blond lady
Who was handed a very big new job.
They were three hacks, traveling all together,
Yet they were on the clock.

‘Til the one day when the feds did come a-snooping
And they knew that it was much more than a hunch —
That this group must somehow form a conspir’cy —
That’s the way they all became the Buncombe Bunch!

The Buncombe Bunch, they lied a bunch
That’s the way we got in this budget crunch!


Jackson’s Island

(Sung to the tune of the theme song for “Gilligan’s Island”)

Just sit right back
And you’ll hear a tale
A tale of a fateful tape,
That started in this mountain town,
And left our mouths agape.
The leak was a violent video,
A copper white and mean,
Who beat a black pedestrian,
And shouted words obscene,
And shouted words obscene.

The paper leaked the body cam,
The liberals were cross.
If not for a scapegoat on the city’s crew
The Council would be lost.
The Council would be lost.

Their eyes set down on the manager
Who’d already retired:
That Gary Jackson,
A biker true.
And brown-eyed.
He got the boot,
(And vacation with salary),
Yes, he left us in style!

So this is the tale of our castaway,
Who was here for a long, long time.
Now paid to chill and maybe bike
The Parkway’s uphill climb.

This manager got out unscathed
And won’t talk to the press,
Retirement seems comf’terble
In his mountain city nest.

No phone, no text, no fax machine,
Not a single care has he
Like Robinson Crusoe
It’s peace and serenity.

So under his gray facial hair,
You’ll always find a smile,
Still funded by us taxpayers
Here on Gary Jackson’s Isle!


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