Every evenin’—guess it’s 9:00 when you can hear his jive;
He does shtik and tricks; for Rupert he bum-swives.
Got his rod up the old man and he burrows twixt his hips.
When he’s on the tube he mindlessly flaps his lips.
It’s wind, Sean.
Nobody seems to know just whither Colmes. ..
Just drifted off the set—guess he’s windblown.
Sean says quite a lot; he’s neither quiet nor shy;
It’s mirror, smokes, his squalls, this redneck guy.
Just wind, Sean.
Every night he’s got a new sore keen,
Airbag, gutless—a blight, ogre who’s ragin’ mean.
It’s a gasbag blow from this stooge right crank;
He’s a loser of a man, loose from the drunk tank.
Inane, the bray, yet many have bought his line,
Though his riffs are wack; the man’s always lyin’.
Triteness he’s sayin’; he farts out gas—
It’s smelly and it’s hot. . .from his mouth ’twill pass.
Yeah, all mirrors and smoke amplified by yells,
Yet they’re buyin’ ’em, the stories that this gasbag tells.
Bags like gag-me Limbaugh and windy Sean intone,
Go on lyin’ drones. . .a spree; they’re just low-rent Joe Pyne
If there was a handshake, I’d wear a vinyl glove. . .
Protect my hand held out to a guy I don’t love.
This pesty man rambles, and his mind’s enslaved
To blame all on the left, so on he raves.
The jackoff’s timbre’s like a farting sound;
Least he don’t mumble like pudgy Rush clown.
Yes, smoke and gas belch out from those swine.
Rush truffles for drug hustles, and his face, porcine.
A big con.
Sean is much worse that Oprah; his worthless sh!t
Just streams out from his big mouth, an open pit.
These spewed turds’re are blitzin’ Fox crap land—
Sean’s the bottom-feeding kind, a carp carping man.
Wind, Sean. Windbag Sean.