These letters spell something that's not only names,
But decades of doubt that have broadened to shames:
The culprits, the planners, the boys in smoked rooms,
Those Wizards behind curtains who organized dooms,
Of whom we've learned squat from slick news careerists,
Who'd even call Toto "conspiracy theorist."
Yes, journalists loathe the conspiracy crowd,
Who ripple their ponds and challenge their proud.
They hate to get scooped by an armchair fizz,
Who full enjoys freedom to call it as is,
And frets not of paychecks or slant editorial,
Nor Wash-town tix to the glam and sartorial.
What of those Ks without such searchers for proof?
Without them all three would have been set aloof
Upon history's sea without anchor or port,
Their cases dispatched and judged without court
By interested parties under sundry influences,
Blase' on coincidence or odd confluences.
It's said that the news is history's first draft,
Which sometimes is later shown to be daft,
Research appears and cuts old versions low,
And most of the time this is welcomed as so,
Conspiracy, then, connects interests to facts,
That crazy aunt steering to unbeaten tracks.
And that's a good thing for some theories come true,
Like Vietnam vets left in war camps to stew,
Like October Surprise and Contra cocaine,
Like the who-shot-first Tonkin and U.S.S. Maine.
It's true among theorists the nuts run amok,
But ask the three Ks if they'd rather lies stuck.