Quite in touch with his own inner sinner,
A true personality,
Loathe of banality,
He made his employer the winner.
But Skinner it seems joined the mob,
Of jocks who are doing their job,
At the whims of the suits,
With their ratings pursuits,
Who hate phrases like, “Don’t touch your knob.”
So it goes in today’s corporations,
Who obsess with collecting more stations.
They destroy a great notion
Borne of endless devotion
By owners who lived their creations.
Were Marconi to walk in our time,
Or Tesla, who wrought the sublime
I’d think surely they must,
Feel the deepest disgust,
For the folly we’ve played on their dime.
The next time I click on the tuner,
And become disenchanted much sooner.
I’ll thank FCC crooks
And those Arbitron books
And Deregulation the Ruiner.
But amidst the canned music and voices,
And fewer desirable choices,
Are a handful who still
Speak their piece at their will
And radio’s spirit rejoices.
For the power rests firm with the masses,
To refuse what they pour in our glasses.
By reminding the knaves
That we own the airwaves,
And they’d better start kissing our asses.
Because radio’s losing its sound,
A great empire crumbling down.
And the powers that be
Would do well to see
That they’re running it into the ground.
So Dear Skinners (and Sterns and whomever),
Please continue the noble endeavor,
To provide something precious,
Entertain and refresh us,
And help us recover that treasure.