THE CRAVEN

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary
Over some new offense by a peevish, lying wingnut boor,
While I lost more precious slumber contemplating one more bummer
By a pundit so much dumber, dumber than the one before.
"’Tis my task to become number to each hummer, that’s my chore.
Merely this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember when reporters would dismember
Any statement by a member speaking on the Senate floor
Not content to merely scribble every little drip and dribble,
Theirs the job to check and quibble, bringing candor to the fore.
But, alas! they’ve been co-opted, rushing us to needless war,
Doomed to just be media whores.

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your attention I implore;
But the fact is you’ve been napping while the right-wing gang is sapping
Our most treasured rights and trapping more of us among the poor.
Is your sense of pride and independence gone forever more?
Is there no return in store?”

Then at last I heard the laughter bouncing from my bedroom rafters
And I knew that ever after in the journalism corps
There would still be more annealing till they nearly all are reeling
And, I have a sinking feeling, kneeling at the Bushes’ door,
Begging access and declaring they are willing to be whores,
On their knees forever more.