Screaming Mr. Jones,
what druggist things is he on?
His vocal strains are strong,
but all he screams: wrong—
squealing like a sow.

He screeches each day in a heat-cat way—
it must hurt those vocal cords when he blares.
Endless rants, and on fire are his pants.
While his spew vox is thrilling his throng.

Screeching Mr. Jones,
he is a wingnut who’s on
everywhere for this throng
that don’t care he’s wrong
in what he avows.

He’s gotta be extra blare-full
to keep paranoia levels high
Fear and dread are his crew’s expectations.
“Look up in the sky!”
screeching Mr. Jones screams.
“These things coming on
are black choppers. Guns gone!!!!!
So get ready now!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

In a house that’s white they’re believing
in some blurtings of this worthless scam tide,
although all Jones’ brays is asinine.
Truth and he won’t meet.
Why can’t he be a mime,
screaming Mr. Jones?
He’s no Marceau, this con,
so he is bringing ’em on,
the high-decibel wrongs
with all the facts gone.
Bullshit fields he plows.