S
SalesWeasel
Guest
‘Twas a week before Christmas when all through the town,
Radios were a-flutter, ‘cause so much had gone down.
Listeners turned on their radios with flair,
But to find that their stations were no longer there .
A voice tracking jukebox was cranking out hits,
In the hope that a two share was within their midst,
And Lowry held his stock, while Mark held the cash,
As they sold off their assets, firing all in a flash.
Atlanta lost talent, some old and some new,
And worst yet they lost, a Nazi and Jew.
When what to my suffering ears should I hear?
But the sound of Vince Gill stabbing my ear.
Then the shrill sound of Toby…Keith hit the air,
Instead of familiar, Lite Christmas fare.
I thought of the jobless, jocks and talk hosts,
Who no longer jaw-jacked from their on-air posts…
No Kimmer! No Tom Hughes!
No Denny…why listen?
No Jen Reed! No Big Rig!
No Reg’lar Guys or Fin!
You’re all off the air!
You’ve all lost your jobs!
Yet Yogi & Panda still work,
Those fat slobs!
As each station we love goes away one by one,
We can sit on the sidelines, and watch all the fun,
As they scramble for listeners, and more market share,
Yet to find that the buyers, are no longer there.
As Williams’s “Project” will lose all its luster,
They’ll scramble for listeners, all they can muster.
While country with Braves games might seem a right choice,
Three heritage stations have all lost their voice.
And that’s all I have for this truncated poem,
It’s Christmas alas, and I’m headed for home.
Bye Randy, bye Spiff, and to Goss say good night,
The last DJ out, please turn off the “Lite.”
Radios were a-flutter, ‘cause so much had gone down.
Listeners turned on their radios with flair,
But to find that their stations were no longer there .
A voice tracking jukebox was cranking out hits,
In the hope that a two share was within their midst,
And Lowry held his stock, while Mark held the cash,
As they sold off their assets, firing all in a flash.
Atlanta lost talent, some old and some new,
And worst yet they lost, a Nazi and Jew.
When what to my suffering ears should I hear?
But the sound of Vince Gill stabbing my ear.
Then the shrill sound of Toby…Keith hit the air,
Instead of familiar, Lite Christmas fare.
I thought of the jobless, jocks and talk hosts,
Who no longer jaw-jacked from their on-air posts…
No Kimmer! No Tom Hughes!
No Denny…why listen?
No Jen Reed! No Big Rig!
No Reg’lar Guys or Fin!
You’re all off the air!
You’ve all lost your jobs!
Yet Yogi & Panda still work,
Those fat slobs!
As each station we love goes away one by one,
We can sit on the sidelines, and watch all the fun,
As they scramble for listeners, and more market share,
Yet to find that the buyers, are no longer there.
As Williams’s “Project” will lose all its luster,
They’ll scramble for listeners, all they can muster.
While country with Braves games might seem a right choice,
Three heritage stations have all lost their voice.
And that’s all I have for this truncated poem,
It’s Christmas alas, and I’m headed for home.
Bye Randy, bye Spiff, and to Goss say good night,
The last DJ out, please turn off the “Lite.”
