I'm bowtied, I look like such a dink.
I'm blow-dried, I shout but rarely think.
I blundered like my colleagues, and now our slips are pink.
Woe, woe, woe.

On "Crossfire," they said, "Goodbye to you."
My boss fired me—Jim, Bob, and Paul too.
We thundered, and Stewart said we were simply bags for douche.

CHORUS:
Those clowns were putting us on,
Their shrieks sounded like a smoke alarm.
Their talk wasn't deep; they stifled their brain.
In fact, they were creeps, causing aural pain.
But now they have been given the boot;
We think nobody will mind.

I'm "Crossfire"d, yet I'm not too upset.
I'll be hired by MSNBC or some lame net.
I'm Barbara Walters, really,
And Geraldo gets me wet.