For he's the Maharushi, who is (nearly) always right.
The Stack of Stuff is rich today. The callers will be thick.
To find the best ones, put them on -- ah, now, that's the trick.
"Mr. Snerdly, are we set?" The screeners are prepared.
The Pretenders. Cue the track. "My City Was Gone" blares.
It's noon, and so he turns to face the golden microphone.
"Dittos" means "God bless you, Rush. Thank God. I'm not alone."
He'll prod the opposition. Then he'll jab them. Make them sore.
His voice, a master's instrument. He can't hear it any more.
Not well, at least. And music -- it just doesn't sound the same.
And music's where he started. In Top 40. That's a shame.
"Here's what's wrong with liberals -- " Just to say that makes him grin.
"Now friends, I want to tell you -- " and he weaves commercials in.
A host of imitators, but no heir to take his throne.
No lesser hand could grasp for long the golden microphone.
He took the pills. Then they took him. He nearly lost it all.
But, humbled, found anew his strength, and so survived the fall.
He's careful not to show self-doubt. He knows just who he is.
He's worked hard. He's achieved success. And yet, past that, there's this:
No children that he knows of. His three marriages fell flat.
His home's ornate. Evokes Versailles. He shares it with his cat.
And each weekday, from noon to three, he rules the microphone,
A man who's loved by millions, yet who's in the end alone.