The man on the radio can hardly catch his breath
Describing my plight, prescribing my death
His voice of disgust spewing hate and mistrust
He feels he's above the law
This is the ballad of Rush Limbaugh
A native son of a lawyer from the show me state
He rose to stoop to infamy and hate
Born with a silver spoon on a feathered bed
Privilege and prestige dancing in his head
He feels he's above the law
This is the ballad of Rush Limbaugh
Every woman he took to the altar
Maxine, Michelle and Marta cut their ties
was it the sex, the drugs or the lies?
You Point your finger saying what you'd do
Blind to the fingers pointing back at you
In your houses made of glass
In your limo carrying your ass
You think you’re the law
You chose the airwaves to spread your dis-ease
To kick a people already down on their knees
Their crime praying for relief
After centuries of rape by thieves
Salt in a wound still raw
This is the ballad of Rush Limbaugh
In your houses made of glass
In your limo carrying your ass
The under educated mass
Of followers from the lower class
Can't see your feet of clay
I believe in what the old folks say
That every dog has its day
No free lunch here
You'll have to pay
One day you’ll pay
Describing my plight, prescribing my death
His voice of disgust spewing hate and mistrust
He feels he's above the law
This is the ballad of Rush Limbaugh
A native son of a lawyer from the show me state
He rose to stoop to infamy and hate
Born with a silver spoon on a feathered bed
Privilege and prestige dancing in his head
He feels he's above the law
This is the ballad of Rush Limbaugh
Every woman he took to the altar
Maxine, Michelle and Marta cut their ties
was it the sex, the drugs or the lies?
You Point your finger saying what you'd do
Blind to the fingers pointing back at you
In your houses made of glass
In your limo carrying your ass
You think you’re the law
You chose the airwaves to spread your dis-ease
To kick a people already down on their knees
Their crime praying for relief
After centuries of rape by thieves
Salt in a wound still raw
This is the ballad of Rush Limbaugh
In your houses made of glass
In your limo carrying your ass
The under educated mass
Of followers from the lower class
Can't see your feet of clay
I believe in what the old folks say
That every dog has its day
No free lunch here
You'll have to pay
One day you’ll pay
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