Jornada del muerto

You run shows and ruin fellows in prime time at nine.
With the millions of bucks pumped, dumped, duped in your backyard,
strangely, you still are unaffordable to buy or borrow a moral spine.
You serve more of a wicked magician than an ideal journalist,
by hiding facts in dungeons and unveiling gluing gloss in the shine.

You deliberately manufacture anxiety; funneling, fueling through your propagandist verdicts,
then you sit on the victim’s mental coffins; and peacefully chew and dine.
The underprivileged are doomed, marooned, abandoned, they die in neglect,
while you and hefty-pocketed corporate pals cling to glasses of scotch or wine.
Your, yet another abiding blow on the already weakening social-fabric,
and yet another innocent being dragged, butchered, thronged like swine.

Your cunning skills earned culinary breads with fleshless bones of piles,
as the hatred you spewed, you irresponsibly brewed, in studio and online.
It reaped rewards, it ripped, stripped, family headless,
as stewarded by you in the name of the holy, divine shrine.
Newly fatherless children sit clueless in the grieving hour devastated,
while you shove mike to their mouths like regular, heartless, divisive design.
Another day, another week, another month, another year
yet the same sickening news pops as you mastered the art of how to malign.
While such unwanted, unfortunate digits shoot and it speedily incline,
while the crucial, critical number that matters, plummets, goes for a decline,
the stakeholders pets and puppets you, so accordingly the headlines align.

Pathetic, preposterous, apocalyptic, stooped, corrupted, disruptive are you,
you iteratively; assaulted, ruptured the soul of the nation including mine.
Sir, you, a disgrace to the country and to your own noble profession,
the tethered spirit you sold in ounces, now congregate with us and whine.
The nation damning knows that,
you run shows and ruin fellows in your prime time at nine.

~abhi Makker