Don't you just love a hot allegation,
Rare to medium, garnished with damnation?
If cooked by the Post, with a side of op-ed,
It has that full body, so smooth like hot bread.
But the best ones you eat with wide Wiki-bibs,
Juicy with documents that stick to your ribs.
Best 'cause most alleg's have no spice of proof,
No docs and no sources, from all fact aloof,
But they're now the fast food of public debate,
Ten billion served yearly by the MSM great,
Unlike before when you needed research,
But chutzpah and spit will now do to besmirch.
Yes, "The Trump Method of Public Discourse,"
The choice of those lacking interest/recourse
To sources of info in flat white and black,
And prefer creation to take up the slack,
Which far more efficiently leaves you awestruck,
With more a'cadabra and bang for the buck.
Not that the prez on this market has corner,
The Times and the rest are Li'l Jack Horner,
Pulling out plums, crying "What a good boy!"
And tossing 'em out with Pulitzer joy.
The point is to plug their cool points of view:
And if facts get fudged, well, that's their purvue.
Into this maelstrom steps dear Wikileaks,
With facts on paper that support what it speaks,
Raining in buckets on democracy's parade,
Spoiling the coiffures in the Fox News arcade.
Big Brother is peeping in your living room,
On you and your sweet or your style with a broom.
Hence the anger that's hard raining or reigning,
Depending upon who and why they're complaining:
Langley vexed sharp about having been ripped,
About household spies, but how'd Wiki get tipped?
While still the day's cherished by us graying groovers,
When the Tubes were just boobs, not J.E. Hoovers.