Senseless snorting, a jive o’ schlock
When his bray begins.
Mindlessly opening up the door
To his cerebrum in which is stored
Creepy clown fare; dude’s a sick ’un
Clucking rancid beliefs.
Silenced he on the airwaves will be;
Dreck fest subsides, we are free.

He (he gave mostly grotesque jive)
Is leaving (sack of tripe bloated with jive)
Faux N’ (he gave us nothing but paranoid lies).
He’s leaving Faux N’ after blitzing with drone
For so many years,

Fattened pork with a life that had lots of fressing chow.
Sick putz was breathlessly on the air
Blabbering drones; now no one wants him there.
The take-down: ’cause cries from the hucksters
Came: “Get this insane gone!
Why did he treat us so thoughtlessly?
Lose him or else we will flee.”

He (he only thought of himself)
Is leaving (thoughts not but of self and pelf)
Faux N’ (he burbled lard and mard jive, did this guy).
He’s leaving Faux N’, blather-dripping cornpone
For so many years.

Fright-way scoring, then on-high schlock, he’s far and away
Crazy: he thinks an anointment was made:
Jesus the Second was he, he brayed.

He (what that dude did was all wrong)
Is leaving (advertisers say, “So long!")
Faux N’ (gone is the funk stink that bummies can ply).
Once he’s outside, get the Lysol applied;
Scour away the smears.
He’s leaving Faux N’ (bye-bye!).