All the news that’s fit to print (from Confessions of a Racist)

They bleed us like pigs,
Ink dripping from their fingers
As they skew us with words
No poison letters,
Just vicious headlines
Corrupted over time,
And like zombies
They feed off our brains
Until we can’t think without them,
Inky fingers pulling strings
To make us react,
To inspire artificial outrage,
They are the perfect puppet master,
Proving how easily then can control us,
Ruling the world without obvious symbols,
They need no swastikas
To show us they are the master race,
Nor soviet sickle to slice away our history,
And yet, like an iron rod inside a silk sleeve
They violate us,
Stirring up the froth they have created
Inside our brains,
Telling us they give us all the news
That is fit to print,
And like the robots we have become
We believe them.