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In a ninety-floor Manhattan address |
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Lives a watchdog called the National Press |
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And around his collar's written the line |
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"The Protector Of Our Hearts And Minds" |
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Hark! Hark! The dog will bark |
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And we believe this hierarch |
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But read between the lines and see |
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This dog's been barking up the wrong tree |
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Meat the Press |
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Meat the Press |
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Meat the Press |
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Meat the Press |
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When the ratings point the camera's eye |
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They can state the facts while telling a lie |
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And the watchdog shows to the viewers at ten |
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He's a bloodhound with a pad and pen |
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Can't pin the blame--he's out of reach |
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Just call the dog "His Royal Leech" |
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We held the rights for heaven's sake |
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'Til we gave this sucker an even break |
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Meat the Press |
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Meat the Press |
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Meat the Press |
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Meat the Press |
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When the godless chair the judgment seat |
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We can thank the godless media elite |
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They can silence those who fall from their grace |
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With a note that says "we haven't the space" |
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Well lookee there--the dog's asleep |
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Whenever we march or say a peep |
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A Christian can't get equal time |
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Unless he's a looney committing a crime |
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Listen up if you've got ears |
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I'm tired of condescending sneers |
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I've got a dog who smells a fight |
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And he still believes in wrong and right |