The News’ Grasp

A brawl broke out at the nursery home

Two men fencing their futile frustrations

Each inflamed insult pierced through thuggish bone

Blasting batwing doors of biased implications

The News’ grasp is thicker than pudding

Augmented angles redacting the truth

Praying the runner loses his footing

As they moan for a turn in the kissing booth

Famished lenses circle the pompous men

Waiting for the rotten stage to crumble

Graffitied scriptures haunt the mic’d playpen

Reminding us how far we have tumbled

Lest our patriotic blueprints entertain the numbers

Who cavort through jiggly-eyed marches

That bloat emotions bound by rubber

I’ll stay home mastering my catharsis

Social shackles bind us indubitably

Eventually we’ll drown in a ruined sea