If they printed it must be true
the arbitrators of truth we must accept
dictating what we ought to know
if we are to know anything at all
advertises each day with a tale of news
we need to have like a fix
a Savage attack dog on the edge
not yet foaming at the mouth
not yet completely rapid
just rancid drink of the poison
we must digest each morning
like a health drink that’s not healthy,
each word snapping off in us
like broken fingers or toes
worse torture for anyone
who challenges their version of truth
puke poured on paper
would seem no different
or bile of some internal indigestion
inspired by some inadequacy of the author
each acquired in youth
needing to prove themselves
needing to create enemies
against whom they can measure
sad, pathetic deluded souls
whose lust for power
corrupts all its touches
and with every word they print.
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