One thing I like about the news is the formality. They can create an aura of professionalism and seriousness, which somehow makes you forget they’re incapable of either.

Don’t get me wrong—I like a good charade.

Why not dress up like you’re going to a cocktail party every night while reading words someone else wrote off a teleprompter? The deadly combination of formal wear, an expensive haircut, and a somber look can change the world.

With that introduction, I wrote a poem about a newsman. I promise this newsletter hasn’t turned into a collection of poems I’ve written. I’ll stop for a while after this one.

Thank you for reading.


The Newsman

The newsman awakens in a high-rise, penthouse suite.
He’s handed a cappuccino and fires off a tweet.
The message is powerful in these dire times.
People still need to listen to men who wear ties.

Stepping into his closet, he dons a black Armani.
With cufflinks and Gucci’s—the voice of the people is ready.
A newsman must always look somber and sincere.
The fate of the nation depends on his ability to sell fear.

Once at the studio the newsman gets right to work.
No time for meetings, but he’ll make time to flirt.
The interns hate him—and that’s not his fault;
Maybe if they worked harder they’d have what he’s got.

Who cares no one watches and they all prefer Rogan?
He’s got a panel of experts to answer his questions.
The 4th Estate would be nothing without him.
I mean, he’s the only one playing himself in movies of fiction.

His job is to hold power to account and point out corruption,
And yes, he makes millions working for a multi-billion dollar corporation.
But they’re not the bad guys; he knows that’s your hunch.
Let’s break for a pharma ad, but first an exclusive on what Trump had for lunch.

He once met Colbert at the White House Correspondents Dinner.
Next time he wants to meet that actress who dated John Mayer.
His mom is so proud, she tells him he’s brave—
He did wear a Patagonia that one time in the rain.

Politicians fear him; he won’t put up with their spin.
He asks them questions, they go on to win.
No party owns him or keeps him from telling the truth.
It’s not his fault one party’s ugly and the other is cute.

He’s your voice and your hero, and he’s on your side.
Where would the world be without him and his kind?
We’d probably be happier and nicer it’s true,
But then who would tell us the sky isn’t blue?