Black like a bruteIt lies there muteWhen it talks in styleIt flashes a bright smileIt sings what they likeIt stops when they dislikeIt’s cared, it’s abusedIt’s shoved, it’s refusedThey call it an idiot boxAnd admit it’s like the stinking socksIt predicts unpredictable weatherAnd the coming price of leatherSome own more than oneYet some have noneWading infinite family moodsAnd spectra of routesSay all at homeTV removes a vacuumThe ladies like the soapsThe males dismiss ‘em as dopesThey love the losing sportsDespite tons of ads it promotesThe kids like the toonsOthers think it is a boonWhatever said and doneThe small screen will definitely run.
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