For Maestro, who knows of whom I speak

[sung to the tune of "You're the Top"... at least the refrain]

You're the pits ... you're a thirsty 'skeeter
You're the pits ... you're a bottom feeder
You're the fresh shellac on Dick Cheney's blackened heart
You're an unlanced boil, you're castor oil,
You're baby art! (looking at you, Anne Geddes)
You're a bust... you're a bile martini
You're the crust on Santorum's wienie
I'm a salty food that's not yet chewed to bits,
But if baby, I'm the olives, you're the pits!

You're the pits ... you're a skid row hummer
You're the pits ... you're a constant bummer
You're a caravan of unbridled vanity
You're a jerk in progress, your royal hogness
You're leprosy!
You're a stye ... you're a Chevy Vega
You're the fly in my shot of Strega
I'm a salty wench with great, portentous tits
But if baby, I'm the cherry, you're the pits!