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Poem
The noblemen control the pen, indeed they own the farm,
but nonetheless exude finesse (and need I mention charm?)
with revenue to sate the few, exulting arm in arm;
for all the rest, they wish the best and certainly mean no harm.

The fourth estate stands proud and straight, emplaced upon a peak,
beside a birch where parrots perch and claim the truth to speak;
while hatching schemes, they’re hawking dreams to keep us mild and meek,
promoted by the gods on high, that clever reigning clique.

They spread their lies throughout the sties to keep the truth at bay
and horoscopes are filled with hopes for those with faith to pray;
the other few wait in the queue, with faces made of clay,
collecting crumbs which have become their dreams of yesterday.

The tube embeds the talking heads (you know the ones, the tools)
who on the screens won’t spill the beans, lest mighty might unspools,
so bend the news reflecting views of those who set the rules
to obfuscate and fabricate their pabulum for fools.

With pyrite smiles and other wiles, they thrive concocting tales
that lead to wars on foreign shores, which help improve the sales
of missile tips and battleships, discounting death that pales
and broken hearts for body parts a graveled grave regales.

You wouldn’t guess, the yellow press, when out to make a kill,
will sell their soul (to dodge the dole) and feed the swine some swill – 
a trenchant trope with inside dope that gives the crowds a thrill
(when mixed with tripe, they call it hype) and masks a bitter pill.

The tabloids reek of doublespeak – when did the stench begin?
In olden times, with paradigms, no doubt with but a grin;
but nowadays, in subtle ways, there’s far more discipline:
they scrawl their screeds neath headline leads that give the tales a spin.

A clever dunce tried hard just once to read between the lies
and thereby found that facts are drowned within a newspeak guise.
Yeah, all that stuff reflects the slough they hide behind their eyes,
although absurd it fuels the herd like schite sustaining flies.

Within the fort a special court is hidden from our view
where sits a judge who’ll never budge, called Captain Kangaroo;
as justice bleeds, those evil deeds (like leaking what is true)
will be convicted as pre-scripted by the hangman’s crew.

A blue-eyed wight uncloaks the night and when (by chance, perhaps) 
his whistle blows, the airwaves close, high crime stays under wraps, 
and those that sin prevail again with feathers in their caps;
the price instead’s the leaker’s head, precluding a relapse.
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