Declaiming is what you'll likely to hear--
Fake stories spouted by aholes.
What they have got to say isn't worth
Used paper from toilet rolls.

Peace can't be found if you tune them in.
Thank God that they don't try to sing.
There's no stillness as long as they bray.
Your eardrums will start to sting.

Through skies and lines voices and pix come--
It's mostly guys, but there's some girls,
Like Ann Colter, a raving psycho--
Lives in her own crazy world.

There's Rush Limbaugh, who favors cocaine
But really likes Oxycontin.
There's Bill O'Reilly, who makes sick sounds
On the phone, cocked like Onan.

In a barn you'd not find such a load
Of stuff that issues when these blow-
hards soil our eyes and ears every day,
More euphonious, a crow.

They cackle on and on, endless hours.
If you're lucky the phone will ring
And you'll enjoy a pitch from some toad,
Who, like them, offers nothing.

Each one of them's an overpaid con
Who by his pimps is bought and sold,
Like Rupert Murdoch, who's on in years,
Like him, their shtik's getting old.

Many of them are whorish Fox drones;
Others offer much the same thing.
If I had to pick one from the throng,
I guess I'd take Larry King.