He’ll always let you see
The way he’s hurtin’ in a blurtin’ spree.
He’s got no pride, so don’t know how to hide
All his sorrow, this man—
He’ll do his crying on C-SPAN.

Where Cons prate their lousy lies,
They fall like the rain, the tears from his eyes.
So now we know, he’s no lovable schmoe—
More like a girlie-man
Who’ll do his crying on C-SPAN.

Raindrops falling from heaven
Got naught on avatar of mistery.
His tie is getting wetter. . .
Emotional Gogh-getter
Can’t hide the tears that flow for all to see.

Some day, when his crying’s done
We’re gonna see pigs fly, and walk, salmon runs,
To their land-based schools. . . .
’ least he don’t snarl or drool
When tears smear his pancaked pan*
And he is crying on C-SPAN.
It’s getting trying, his seep pan.


*face