By Khakjaan Wessington
While journalism's oft ephemeral
True verse remains perennial.
Our dialogue is often fixed,
With dualisms. Trite discussion's mixed
With prejudice and fearful ways of thought:
Debate, it's ruled, can trade. It's bought
For millions, yielding billions—yet
The perfumed lie depends on truth (in debt).
Attack then writers, poets--those who feel
The whims of liars, hacks; trained seals
That skew as handler deems them to--
And fight for those constituents they woo.
The narrative's munition now: just read
The facts the spies would have you cede—
Not burnt, just buried; referenced
On microfiche, truth deferenced
To assholes who distort the facts to sway
The narrative for grabs today.
It's not what's writ, but how it's done:
For verse and prose unspin the lies once spun.
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