Lyrics

Tony leaves us each summer
for Rehobeth Beach
Though driving 'cross the Bay Bridge still
leaves him without speech

Well he can't even use his iPhone
though he holds it in his hand
Anything electronic
he can't understand

Now he's going to read your e-mails
and your faxes and your notes
With sarcasm and contempt,
he'll read some for all you folks

Grandpa's reading funny emails,
pinning notes from parts remote
'Bout lunches, neighbors, and commute routes
that the stinkin' littles wrote

He's been telling us he was a writer once
at the New York Post
'Til Roger Maricelli cooked his goose
like it was toast

All those years on Monday Night
didn't turn out like he planned
The love fans have for Gruden
he can't understand

Now the bald man's reading e-mails
containing haikus and old jokes
Passing information for life
And calling everybody dopes

Yeah he's going to read your emails,
Mispronouncing names galore,
Don't you bother texting his phone
Because that he does deplore

Satch makes a ton of money
but he bitches all the time
His incompetence in finance
is enough to blow your mind

But Thank God for Tony and his colleagues
for filling up our days
Curse the sales weasels for
their podcast delays

It's the orange Tony's mailbag,
Don't hold your breath 'til hearing yours,
Getting through Nigel's screening,
Takes a miracle and more.

Yes, it's really Tony's mailbag,
and the ending of the show,
Now he's off to PTI,
Where he and Wilbon make their dough.