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The facts count for nothing, they're buried in spin;
I'll swear down is up and that outside is in.
Who cares if the truth is stretched painfully thin?
What matters the most is that my view must win.
A boulevard-journalist— that is my trade.
I don't like your views, so I'll launch a tirade;
appeal to a crowd that is easily swayed,
they won't comprehend that they're just being played.
To triumph is easy — just hurl sticks and stones,
promote a conspiracy, using hushed tones.
Pay heed to my voice, I'm the great Alex Jones;
although I am special, I've thousands of clones.
We're media megaphones, that much is true;
and if you don't like us, you haven't a clue.
Not buying our hype? You're not red-white-and-blue!
There's a special place waiting in hell, just for you.
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Author Notes
boulevard-journalist (n.) an unscrupulous or exploitative journalist.
"Infowars" (see title) is the name of the website run by the shock-jock named in this piece.
My much-treasured Christmas present for 2017 is a book by Paul Anthony Jones: "The cabinet of linguistic curiosities". Each page contains a descriptive story about some obscure or archaic word. It occurred to me it would be a fun exercise to try and write, each day, a poem featuring the "word of the day" from the book.
Thanks for reading.
Photo: Sean P. Anderson from Dallas, TX, USA [CC BY 2.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons
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