There's a certain sort of news For the itching of the ear-- Do you know? do you.. peruse? Then these signs may still appear; In it every evil nears Or good has always nearly won Perhaps the two, and all these fears Up your chest must make their run; Just enough conspiracy To make it seem all figured-out No real call to action, see The actions somehow stand in doubt; It's all the truth, or truthiness If your enemies could read-- Truth their conscience would impress And from lies we'd all be freed; Just don't touch that rail there Do you see--?, electrified Unseen to most who seem to care Mind the gap, or get deep-fried; Fables yes, for your consomme The soup seems clear, but what it hides! Put up with them a bit too long, Forget about your bona fides; The man who peddles? Not the best! Received his place there at the gates Do you know the fable, all the rest? One who tells him's one he hates; Comments there are not allowed And skepticism falls away About this thing he's just as loud As those he critiqued yesterday; But where's your noose you may have asked For your ear, which itches still? A noose is not for ears, at last-- But news I hear, still loves to kill.