Now, how did this start? Why, don't you remember?

It was not all that long past the 5th of November.

Davis had won, not by much, but by some.

His opponents were mad. They were sad. They were glum.

So they started a drive. It began as a rant:

Let's toss out this twerp by the seat of his pants.

They asked people to sign, and to sign, and to sign

And to sign, on the proverbial black dotted line.

Darrell Issa stepped in and gave them big bucks,

He wanted to be the next muckety-muck.

It certified, by a lot. Although Cruz tried to stall,

In the end what he said didn't matter at all.

Except for the part about how he wasn't running --

Well, he did, in an act of spectacular cunning.

So did Jeffrey Mock, Audie Bock, Ivan A. Hall,

Ed Beyer, Jim Weir -- but that is not all.

There's Feinstein, Mystein, Yourstein and Hisstein,

Ralph, Art and Gino, Vip Bhola, John Beard,

The tall and the fat and the short and the weird.

There's a boxer, a banker, a golf pro -- look here:

There's Stephen L. Knapp, who brews his own beer.

And Trek Thunder Kelly, who wears only blue.

If he gets elected, who knows what he'll do?

Larry Flynt says he's in, the father of sin

He'll get us out of this pickle we're in.

David Laughing Horse Robinson, here's looking at you --

We're reading the ballot, and we're still not through.

McClintock won't budge. He won't move. He won't blink.

He's bucking the trend and he's raising a stink.

And the rest of the world? It has ceased to exist.

You'll have to trust me while I'm telling you this.

It's all about Arnold, Arianna and Gray,

and who had the best and worst quotes of the day.

There was an egg, and a thong, and a mention of hash --

Wait, that sounds good. We need some. Got cash.

The polls keep on saying who's down and who's up

As the dirt filters in from the land of Na-Nupp.

Have you heard? Arnold drives big gas-guzzling cars!

There goes Peter Ueberroth, back off to Mars.

Camejo is mad. He'll raise taxes, or two,

Huffington has sound bites ready for you.

``Vote for me,'' says Cruz B., to one and to all,

``Vote for me, vote for me . . . mumble mumble recall.''

And how will it end, you say, how will it end?

Just wait until October 7th, my friend.

Or wait, maybe March. The 9th Circuit hath spoken:

They say that our state voting system is broken.

It's unfair. It won't work. They don't want to be had

by ballots polluted by dangling chad.

Hello? Supreme Court? Is that you? Are you there?

Is that Florida citrus we smell in the air?

Hang on, now the 9th says October is swell.

Hooray! We can't take six more months of this hell.

Gray Davis will stay. Or maybe he'll go.

The pundits will tell you what you need to know.

Cruz will step up. Then again, maybe not.

But if Davis survives, watch tempers run hot.

And the voters? Please hold still while we check your mood.

As you fume and you rail and you sulk and you brood.

Why, they've had it! They're mad! They're fed up to the gills.

They're not drinking another foul drop of this swill.

Except when we write about Oui magazine.

Oo-la-la, quelle surprise. Have you heard? Have you seen?

Now this poem is over. It's tired. We're through.

We've got stories to cover and too much to do.

So for now it's goodbye, we'll see you all later,