"Nightly" or "Evening," I watch every day,
Wondering what more of the world's blown away.
Have more heroes, villains or victims bit dust?
What chance exists that my own hair get mussed?
For I do like my 'do all shiny and trim,
That it may give appeal to yon seraphim.
But in truth my concern is fair plain enough.
Though not being ISIL or Al Gore-type stuff.
Nor is it Qaeda, Ted Cruz or Jeb Bush,
Nor hairy great debts to the brink that us push.
Really what weighs on my thoughts like a canker,
Are those sturdy voices known as "the anchor."
Day after day they relate the earth's fettle,
Gibraltar but Jell-O compared to their mettle.
Tie straight and center, hair ne'er just-cut,
Chipper as snowflakes or grim from the gut.
Chatting as if it's his house he's to paint,
What kind of fool doubts this latter-day saint?
Yet as he talks I hear master of ring:
Frowning on Putin, and France has no zing.
Iran rates a frown, Brazil a half-smirk:
Beach-bums who don't know squat about work.
Cuba is nothing but constant disaster,
Honduras, so rich, needs no looking-after.
Paki drones fly to "degrade" the worst terror,
Seen from an eagle, without the least error.
Homecoming vets receive grandest grinning,
Surprising their tykes at end of first inning.
It's always so sweet the way anchors wind up,
With cat-in-a-tree or the return of lost pup.
(Though all in between shout ads for correctives:
Dysfunction, toe fungus, aids for digestives.
And the folks that suffer, why, they look just swell,
That snake-oil must work, you can't even tell!
Followed by reams on the second effects:
Consult your doctor if you get no respect.)
'Tween health and horrors the anchor-guy hovers,
Conferring his blessing on all that he covers.
I used to admire how he oozed Fifth Estate:
Before he took cues from the Pentagon's slate,
Still keen to impress he fends for plain folk:
Those that pull quiet on capital's yoke.
(Article changed on April 6, 2015 at 04:21)