Bright blooms of fireworks spattered shadows on our tide
Whose grasping fingers clawed into our land,
And scraped out slots like graves upon our sand.
A far-off signal flared and sputtering fell,
Its bloom of sparks splashed deep in slate,
But, like our last edition, this signal came too late.
The drumming bursts of broken cannons
Stomped along the edges of our gilded cage,
And faded like the lies we smeared on our front page,
Faded until all we knew of want or wish or war
Were the screams of our grandchildren slain
Beyond our gilded sand, our fruited plain.
The pen is mightier than the sword, but the flamethrower is mightier than the pen, which you wield quite well and with deadliest of aim.
Posted by: Jewel at August 21, 2010 9:46 AMThe Horror, the horror ...
One day we will look back on all of this,
and slam into a parked car.
.
All the news that's fit to suppress.
Posted by: james wilson at August 21, 2010 9:58 AMAt intervals along the tacky, interminable descent of the NYT, the master places another barbed marker. And again I say Bravo! It could not happen to a more deserving collection of useful idiots.
Posted by: at August 21, 2010 5:58 PM"It is impossible to speak in such a way that you cannot be misunderstood." -- Karl Popper N.B.: Comments are moderated to combat spam and may not appear immediately. Comments that exceed the obscenity or stupidity limits will be either edited or expunged.
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