He's got a crapload of adverts
A radio fix on the stars
All along the airwaves
She's got the latest Rolling Stone
A picture book of the posers
Playing the Sahara

They travel in the time of the profits
On invisible airwaves promoting beer-drinking as fun
Like losers and bozos, and the witless part of everyone
They're only at home when "Rockline" is on
"Rockline" is on

The band has the intelligence of balsa wood
A list of cheap groupies
All along the tour
They'll throw your sister out on her ass
After she delivers a decent blowjob
Lead guitarist with his pants down

They travel on the road to the Grammies
A highway of album sales that the interview brings
Like losers and bozos, lip-synching means that nobody sings
They can only perform with their tape machines
Tape machines

When fans are dumb
Wandering the face of the dial
Asking the same questions with an asinine smile
We're learning that Bob Coburn is too dull
For an unlimited time

"Why don't you play all your old stuff?
What does YYZ stand for?
Why was John Rutsey shitcanned?
Will Geddy play at my bar mitzvah?
What's Alex's favorite color?
Was Neil influenced by Ayn Rand?"

The microphone is manned by a buffoon
If I had my way he'd be given the boot
Like Jimmy and Tammy, he's in it only for the loot
He's only at home in a leisure suit
A leisure suit

He travels on the road to the next show
On a primetime pathway straight to Heart and Bryan Adams at #1
Like Collins and Petty, and the Top 40 part of everyone
If I'm only at home it's with a CD on
FM's gone...