In a ninety-floor Manhattan address
Lives a watchdog called the National Press
And around his collar's written the line
"The Protector Of Our Hearts And Minds"
Hark! Hark! The dog will bark
And we believe this hierarch
But read between the lines and see
This dog's been barking up the wrong tree

Meat the Press
Meat the Press
Meat the Press
Meat the Press

When the ratings point the camera's eye
They can state the facts while telling a lie
And the watchdog shows to the viewers at ten
He's a bloodhound with a pad and pen
Can't pin the blame--he's out of reach
Just call the dog "His Royal Leech"
We held the rights for heaven's sake
'Til we gave this sucker an even break

Meat the Press
Meat the Press
Meat the Press
Meat the Press

When the godless chair the judgment seat
We can thank the godless media elite
They can silence those who fall from their grace
With a note that says "we haven't the space"
Well lookee there--the dog's asleep
Whenever we march or say a peep
A Christian can't get equal time
Unless he's a looney committing a crime
Listen up if you've got ears
I'm tired of condescending sneers
I've got a dog who smells a fight
And he still believes in wrong and right