Someone had to do it. This ought to get those Chowds at OTM all riled up. 

It's called a crime of passion
It's called a circus tribe
The media teeth are nashing
While wearin that anchor's smile

I sure can face the ocean
The desert burnt the toast
I wish I had some lotion
I feel like a piece of toast

Nick's goin to leave
Bells are ringin
Goin to death and to jump
We're goin to a hangin

Oh, honey please, won't you come
Oh, honey please, won't you come