Each anchor dons their earnest mask at nine,
parading truths like shaved carrots on a plate.
The headlines scream of crises, wars, decline,
masked by the glint in their segmented state.
Our stories feed the dance of light and screen,
ad men grow fat while people\'s hope grows lean.
Beneath the gloss, the static hums unseen,
they sell despair and call it timely glean.
Where are the voices of the silent poor?
Lost in a vortex of commercial breaks,
a dirge distorted by the crowds that roar
for things that glitter, tremble, snap, and quake.
Thus news becomes a circus, gaudy, loud,
a parody where truth can’t breach the cloud.