Can't you please be mum, Geraldo?
I remember long ago, you caused sparks as a journalist,
Not a jocose twit, Geraldo.
But now you are loving yourself, proving to be narcissistic.
I can hear--wish you were mum,
You sound as if you're "you" enthralled--solipsistic.

You're a poseur now, Geraldo.
Power you have now is based solely on celebrity.
On and on you bray, Geraldo.
I can still recall the night you turned to shmuck; bonafides died,
And you have no shame today.
A score! You opens Capone's vault, the door was pried.

There was nothing found in there that night--
Embarrassed sight, Geraldo.
Yeah, the vault was completely empty,
Nothing to see, Geraldo.
After that you were a poor excuse
For news, a pest.
Ever since then you have only dinned,
A bag of wind, Geraldo.

Won't you go away, Geraldo?
You are probably the only one who will give you a hand.
Why can't you be mum, Geraldo?
And why did you join Barb and Britt and Meredith in a band
Of once-proud news writers who now merely grandstand?

When that putz is on the air at night,
A startling sight, Geraldo.
Now he's naught but a celebrity--
Pure vanity, Geraldo.
Preening blow-dried shmuck, a poor excuse;
Surely you jest.
Since the vault fault you have only dinned,
A bag of wind, Geraldo.

"There's no there there," Gertrude Stein might write
Of barking blight Geraldo.
Asked who his fav'rite person might be,
He would say, "Me! Geraldo!"
Preening mustached shmuck, a poor excuse;
Surely you jest.
Since the vault fault you have only dinned,
A bag of wind, Geraldo.
Since vault fault, gevalt, oy! you've only dinned,
A bag of wind, Geraldo.